


A Pack of Wolves

by Salamon2



Series: Rise and Fall of the Baratheons [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different Birth Order, Butterfly Effect, Chaos Theory, Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Gen, House Arryn, House Stark, House Tully, Multi, Westerosi Reformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 89
Words: 307,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of So Soars the Young Falcon--it will not make sense unless you've read that first, so please do so. House Stark, like all the other houses in Westeros is not the same after Robert's Rebellion--four wards to take care of in addition to a bastard and a trueborn bring their own hardships, but also their own joys. The years pass and the pack of wolves grow and their relationships change and evolve--some for good and others for ill--setting the foundations for Westeros' future to come. Note: this story spans the years 283 - 292.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oswell

**Author's Note:**

> This has less of a cohesive narrative (though there still is one) and is more about exploring the evolving relationships between characters as time passes and as more characters become part of the pack. Think of this part of the series more as a collection of character studies and short stories set in this alternate universe marking the passage of time and the evolution of these characters as they interact, grow and change.

**OSWELL**  
  
He arrived in Pentos in as little as a fortnight from his departure thanks to steady winds and calm waves. He came with only a poor set of armor, his own white helmet with a black bat forged onto it, a spare set of clothes and the remains of his personal belongings that he could fit into his trunk.  
  
Pentos itself was a port city protected by sea by the Bay of Pentos and protected by land by the tall wall which surrounded it. Stretching beyond it in the distance Oswell could make out what looked to be the beginnings of a great grassy plain, with a series of foothills near the city itself, forming a rough natural border to the east. Many of the buildings were made of sun-dried bricks, while stone and marble were reserved for the luxurious manses and places of the forty families and magistars. The city, though being more populous than King’s Landing somehow managed to avoid the utter stench of the nearest Westerosi equivalent that Oswell had experienced in his life.  
  
Upon arriving he was interviewed by the customs officer who rifled through his trunk and spoke with a broken and heavily accented common tongue. After his belongings were searched he was permitted to enter the city, and Oswell set out for the address that Prince Oberyn had suggested he go to first to establish a relationship with the one contact he did have in the city. Given the Dornish prince’s reputation he should have been less surprised when he found himself near the end of a dead ended alleyway which was home to several of the more exclusive brothels. The one which concerned him, was the one with an image of a woman standing with one foot on land and the other in water painted onto its front. The woman in the painting was wearing nothing at all while holding a goblet in each hand as a kind of offering, surrounded by an indiscriminate night sky upon which shimmering stars seemed to pop forth to frame the woman. Though it was faded, Oswell could tell that the painter had been quite skilled and attached to their work, obviously having taken special attention to minor details which became more noticeable the longer you stared at it. The name of the business was likewise painted onto the wall of the building: Qēlosozi Ābra, or Starry Woman he loosely translated.  
  
He heard a woman with dyed hair of violet shout to him from one of the windows in their bastardized Valyrian. Recalling what he could of his old maester teaching him and his elder brother Edmyre High Valyrian he could just make out that she japed with him about whether or not he wanted to do more than just look. He replied with what little High Valyrian he could muster in his mind to remember.  
  
He spoke haltingly, but well enough, he thought, saying, “Rytsas… ābra brōzat Andella… undessun daor.”  
  
“Sparos iepagon Andella?” asked the woman.  
  
“Azantys Vesterozi,” he answered.  
  
The woman answered with a smirk. Fearing he could carry the conversation no further he asked, “Quptenkos Ēngoso ẏdrassis?”   
  
“Aye, when I must. Now why is a sellsword from the sunset kingdoms visiting my little brothel?” asked the woman, who seemed to identify herself as the bawd.  
  
“I have a letter from a friend of yours.”  
  
“I fear you must have come to the the wrong brothel, for I have no friends in the sunset kingdoms,” began the woman as she was about to close her shutters.  
  
“He said to tell you that the fangs have come out.”  
  
At this the woman paused, before asking, “Wait there.”  
  
A few minutes later the woman opened the door and beckoned he enter. She immediately slammed the door shut behind him and motioned for him to leave his trunk by the door and led him through a series of rooms filled with women lounging about, entertaining men or themselves. They at last came to a room which was obviously her own, and she closed the door, locked it and motioned for him to take a seat.  
  
“Your name?” asked Andella.  
  
“Oswell Whent,” answered Oswell, feeling no need to disguise his identity with his supposed contact.  
  
Andella was silent for a long moment, pouring two glasses of wine and then offering one to him. He politely refused and she poured his glass back into the flagon, took a seat herself and began to sip at her wine as she spoke, “It has been some time since I heard of the Red Viper. He last came here when he was but…six and ten, I believe he said. He stayed here a week and then set sail to Volantis. Now you come to me saying that he is in trouble… tell me, why should I care whether or not he needs my help?”  
  
Everything was going extremely quickly for Oswell, typically he liked to sit in the shadows and observe—that was how he truly could be of use—but this forthrightly speaking, this was not his forte.  
  
“You obviously care a great deal considering you’ve brought me this far into your brothel at the mere mention of him…” and then an idea came to him, “did he perhaps steal your heart?” asked Oswell.  
  
“A heart is a luxury no whore can afford. He did not take anything from me, Ser, instead he left something…” muttered the woman.  
  
“A daughter?” asked Oswell, knowing that the Red Viper was well known for only having daughters.  
  
“Is that why you’ve truly come, to collect my son?” asked Andella with all the ferocity of a Stark she-wolf.  
  
“Truthfully I care not whether the Red Viper has four or a million bastards. I was sent by him to… investigate certain spheres of Pentos. He told me to speak with you before doing so, saying that this letter would explain anything I might fail to,” and with that said, Oswell pulled out the sealed letter for her to read. She looked it over laughing at the sigil pressed into the wax of an orange speared sun, and she then opened it and read it. As she did she paled at its contents.  
  
“Madam—” began Oswell.  
  
“What he asks is… dangerous. I cannot assist you myself with such a task. It is too great for me to handle… but I might be able to point you in the appropriate direction…” mentioned Andella, rising and beginning to pace worriedly.  
  
“Mayhaps we could discuss this another time? I must be on my way if I’m to find lodgings for the night…” suggested Oswell as he noticed the sunset through her open window.  
  
“Aye, that sounds reasonable. Wait a moment,” said Andella and she then walked over to the window which overlooked the back alley behind the building and called out to someone outside in a fast stream of words of the Pentoshi bastard Valaryian that Oswell could not make out.  
  
A few moments later a young boy climbed through the window and Oswell stared at him. The boy, like his mother, had dyed his hair violet, but beyond that Oswell felt safe in saying that Prince Oberyn was indeed the father—the only parts of his mother in the boy seemed to be his lighter complexion than that of the Prince’s and his mother’s pale green eyes.  
  
Andella spoke slowly in the common tongue, and said, “Obi, this man is in need of lodgings for this evening at an inn… take him to the Eight Swords.”  
  
The boy apparently understood the common tongue but seemed apprehensive to answer in it, simply nodding to acknowledge he understood her. Oswell then rose and took his leave of Andella, who dismissed him with a wave of her hand as she returned her attention to the letter he had brought her.  
  
The Eight Swords Inn was a small ramshackle little place not too far from the Starry Woman. The illiterate sign was of eight swords bent and reforged into a wreath. It was on a larger and wider street, but it felt no less secluded with the way streets twisted and wound through the city. It was outside of the inn that the boy nodded his head toward the building and then hurried off into the milling crowd, vanishing as he did so.  
  
The inn was owned by an old man called Foerys and his young daughter, Lysenia. Lysenia was a girl on the cusp of maidenhood, having long flowing silver blonde hair and eyes a dark mix of green and blue like the sea. She was the one in charge of receiving guests, running off to find her father when Oswell managed to pull out a bag of coin that the Prince had provided which “officially” came from him having sold most of his possessions before arriving in the Free Cities.  
  
Foerys was quite an old man, who needed a cane to get around, though clearly he tried to inhabit any room he walked into with his presence. After haggling a decent weekly rate which could be charged, Oswell grabbed his trunk and climbed the stairs to the second floor and his room. It was a small cramped place with not much more than a straw mattress to sleep on, but it would have to do, for now.  
  
After having settled in, Oswell left to purchase food before the street vendors closed up completely and after purchasing a loaf of bread and a honey apple, Oswell returned to his room to discover that in his absence someone else had entered his darkened room as he was shocked by the presence of a hooded figure in the room, who made his presence known by saying, upon the closing of the door, “Hello, Oswell…”


	2. Catelyn

  
**CATELYN**

No matter how often she visited the godswood, or asked her goodsister about the old gods, no easy answers came. There only remained that one vision forever playing in the back of her mind, of the children laughing, climbing a nearby tree, and happy. Not just her son, but also her husband’s wards and even his bastard. And to have seen that vision before she had known of the arrival of the two Westerling children, made her know it was not just her imaginations. No, it had been a sign from the old gods—but what it meant… of that she would have to puzzle out. The only answer she did get from her goodsister was that there were very few rules to the old gods. So whatever their reason, the old gods had answered her prayers with a promise of her son’s happiness, and this she could take some solace in. And oddly enough she found that comforting. Catelyn could neither understand nor ignore the power of the old gods, but to have that one reassurance made all the difference. And that, she told herself was the reason now she made a daily vigil to the heart tree—which after a month of staring into its face no longer seemed so strange or alien. It watched with a weary expression of having seen much before it, and in a way she thought it could listen to her troubles in addition to providing some solace.

All the new gods had given her was judgment and punishment, which by them she did deserve. It was wrong to think so ill of an innocent child as to want him dead… but what else could she think of for her husband’s bastard beside that she had wished him gone? Gone so that the servant girls who laughed to themselves about “Lord Stark’s attentions” would go away, that the pitying looks she received from others would go away, that the probing looks she received from her goodsister would go away. In contrast though, what the old gods gave her was the promise of a better future—but how to achieve that future? Clearly Jon Snow would remain part of her son’s life, and oddly enough be happy about it. How best to achieve that future though? She then recalled something her husband had said to her before leaving King’s Landing:

_Like the wolf of our sigil, we see ourselves as a pack, and the pack is strongest when together and raised as a pack. We’ve had no troubles with bastards as a result..._

And then she realized what might be the meaning behind the vision. What she had seen was not one child happily surrounded by many as she had first thought, but instead was many children happy together as a group…a pack. A wolf’s family…

_But Robb is different he’s the heir to Winterfell._

He may be different, but a pack was still a family…

_Family, Duty, Honor…_

Oh how her father’s words now mocked her. True, Jon Snow was not of her blood as Robb was, but he and Robb shared blood… they were family. How could she ever raise him to honor her family’s words and keep him from his half-brother? How could she uphold the honor of the Tullys—let alone that of the Starks to raise him to be a hypocrite?

A Stark’s “pack” it seemed though to encompass something more than just blood—kith as well as kin, if her husbands’ taking in of wards was any indication. And it also seemed to be her son’s as well. In the time she had spent distraught over her ill-made choices, the servants had arranged the nursery, making use of what few cribs they had by keeping the three infant boys together, so that Jeyne Westerling, being the only lady of the nursery, could have her own crib. It was the sensible thing to do, Catelyn had to admit, and the more time she spent in the nursery, the less she could deny it—the three infant boys adored one another. Early on after her recovery she had tried to separate Jon, Den, and Robb—placing the former two into makeshift crates with blanket and straw padding for cribs, but each time she was not allowed to leave the room before one of the three would begin to wail, setting off the other two in a chorus of cries, which would then wake sweet little Jeyne, and cause her to return Jon, Den, and Robb back into the large crib which they were determined to share. One thing Catelyn was quite sure of—the three already considered themselves brothers, no matter the truth of their blood. For better or ill, they were inseparable now and heartily refused to be divided. And on some level—which she kept hidden even from herself—she thought it rather sweet in an innocent childish way.

_And yet one day, the world will divide you like it has my family. There are marriages to be had, battles to fight, and fortunes to be won—not all of which will be had within these walls. Enjoy this while you can…_

Catelyn had Raynald moved into a side chamber off of the nursery shortly after his arrival, and he seemed to appreciate it—especially when the four infants began crying. One time she had noticed Raynald had come rushing to see what was wrong with his sister Jeyne but the more frequently he found either herself or Old Nan in the nursery the less frequently he came at her wail.

When Eddard returned to Winterfell, he came looking far different from the man who had left King’s Landing for the Westerlands. He looked haggered from weeks upon the road, and the child, the squid boy, Theon Greyjoy, clearly had not helped matters much. Thankfully though, Theon was about as close to the age of reason as Raynald Westerling was. Having had little warning beyond a raven sent from Seaguard, Cat had only just had time to arrange for a similar small chamber off of the nursery for the little lordling of the Iron Islands. From that same letter she knew though that this child was not of her husband’s choosing, with the King having commanded that they raise him along side the young Lord Westerling and their son in hope that good relations may be fostered to ensure peace between them all in the future.

Her husband’s welcoming of her seemed slightly cool and distant, in comparison to the brotherly hug he had given Benjen, and the slight smile he’d given her goodsister. But he had been nothing if not respectful, despite being obviously too tired to truly want to go through proper ceremony. He asked after her health, and how she found Winterfell. She equally gave polite responses to his questions, saying that since the delivery of their son she was recovering well, and that she had yet to see all of Winterfell to know her full mind of it. He then had asked if she might take him to the nursery so he might see his sons. The request was heart warming to some degree and a cold blast of a winter wind as well as it wasn’t just their son he wanted to see, but Jon Snow as well. After leading him to the nursery, she lingered in the doorway, watching as Eddard picked up each of his sons and held them with such a profound sense of love and devotion that Catelyn wished that some kind of similar affection could be found in their own relations. She left the nursery with silent tears flooding her eyes, and beginning to stream down her cheeks.

With Eddard’s siblings present, Catelyn found that they both could find easy excuses not to speak with one another. She was much more at ease sharing a small jape with Lyanna or speaking over household ledgers and expenses with Benjen. So for the first few days she let these be her excuses to avoid speaking with Eddard, half knowing that the true reason, a fear beyond all else, came from not knowing if she could speak to him about Jon Snow without confessing her horrible near-crime to him…

It was near a sennight when her goodsister came to her asking if she could help her find one of her missing riding boots that she had lost somewhere in the castle. Apparently having searched through all of her chambers already, they retraced her steps from when she had known to have last had them, eventually coming to the solar, where quite suddenly Catelyn found herself pushed inside and the door locked behind her. Eddard sat quietly in the chair she was used to seeing Benjen sit in, as he looked over some letters.

He looked up and grey eyes met blue—each unwilling to make the first move, to say the first thing, until she had had enough and said, rather formerly, “My lord…”

After a moment of silence, he said, “Benjen said there were a few letters here for me to read, and if I’m not mistaken I saw Lyanna push you in here before locking the door behind you. It seems then my brother and sister will not let us out until we speak with each other.”

“Aye, it would seem so,” she agreed. She made no movement to sit, but felt awkward just standing here near the threshold of a locked door.

A long moment of silence passed before Eddard gave up all pretenses of reading the letters on the desk and asking, rather softly so that she nearly missed hearing him say, “Do you hate me?”

Without thinking, she responded, “No… hate would require that I know you better…” Again there was silence, but this time she broke it, saying, “Besides, we have a son, and for his sake, I would not hate you.”

He began, “Then our wards—”

“Are perfectly fine. It was a good thing of you to take them in as you did—even the Greyjoy boy. Fostering the lordlings will help build up relations that will give our family connections throughout the realm. And beyond that it shows… it shows that though you may be a bloody wolf, you have a kind heart. I thought so at the first when you mentioned taking in Den.”

With some obvious annoyance, he answered, “I am not a bloody wolf…”

She countered, “Several bloody fields of battle, and several decimated families would disagree with you on that account—the Kingswood still reeked of the rank odor of death when I left the capital.”

“And is that why you have been hesitant to speak with me?” asked Eddard, his eyes seeming to melt with a flicker of emotion before returning to the solid icy grey walls they usually were.

“Truthfully, we’ve both been hesitant with one another. You could have just as easily come to my own chambers and requested that we speak,” answered Catelyn.

He seemed impassive at the suggestion, eventually asking, “It’s about Jon then, isn’t it?”

“Aye, to some degree it is,” she answered honestly after swallowing. Now came the hard part. She took a deep breath and thought carefully of how to continue before doing so, “I can understand why you would have him here. Lyanna has explained much about Bran the Daughterless, Lonny Snow, Brandon Snow, and all other Snows of the past that have had Winterfell as their home. And yet, while I can understand it… that still does not change how I feel. I know it is irrational, that his existence is of no offense to myself or our vows since he came from before either of us were promised to the other, but on some level I can’t seem to let how I feel go completely—I want him gone… and yet, I know he must stay. I try... I still try… and I hope that with time that I can feel differently, but at this crossroads… I will not be unkind to him—to that I swear by all the gods—but I know that I cannot look upon him as a mother does… mayhaps as an aunt, but no more can I promise now.”

There she had gotten through it, all without ever once mentioning her near-crime. That would have to be a cross she would have to bear alone. Of that she knew perfectly well. As for Jon Snow’s presence, he would have to be something she would have to accept, and so she did. After all, what other choice did she have in the matter with even the gods against her feelings.

They were silent again for a long while before she heard the door unlock, and her goodsister and goodbrother enter.

It was not until later that evening, when Old Nan was helping her to brush her hair out that she heard a knock on the door, which Old Nan answered. To her surprise, it was her husband. He dismissed Old Nan and took a chair and brought it near where she sat on the edge of her bed, so that he could look at her. Though she had on a nice thick shift to keep her warm, Catelyn almost felt as if she were completely naked.

“This afternoon you said you did not know me well enough to hate me—” he started.

“Forgive my blunt speech, my lord—” she began.

He interrupted her and said, “Ned, if it would not trouble you…”

That’s right, he had said to call him Ned. Somehow in all the business of the children, the war, her sister’s marriage, and Robb’s birth she had nearly forgotten that he had asked her to do so.

“Ned…” she said in response, as if trying it out for the first time properly—it wasn’t truly the first time, but in some ways it did feel like a first time.

“I would like to correct that. If it would not trouble you,” he answered.

“Excuse me?” asked Catelyn.

He explained thoroughly, “We are man and wife. Whatever our past passions and deeds, they remain behind us, while we must move and look forward to what will come next. I would like to have someone standing beside me who knows me, rather than thinks of me as a stranger.”

Tentatively she added, “I—I would like that as well… Ned…”


	3. Denys

******DENYS**   
  
Lysa was immediately brought to her chambers in the Red Keep—Grand Maester Gormon overseeing her care personally himself at the behest of Robert. For nearly three hours Denys was not permitted to enter into her chambers—being told that when it was safe to enter he would be the first one permitted inside. As such this left Denys very little to do at first beyond pacing in front of her door…and along with his gooduncle, asking both his ward and his young goodbrother what exactly had happened.   
  
“He pushed me,” answered the young Greyjoy girl seemingly without emotion.  
  
“Is this true?” he asked his goodbrother, feeling more like a parent or an uncle than a brother to the boy of ten namedays.  
  
 _Seven help me, I am old enough to be his father—a young father, but nonetheless…_  
  
“Aye, but only after she—”  
  
“No excuses Edmure! She’s a lady—no matter how she dresses—and a lord does not go around pushing ladies,” scolded the Blackfish.  
  
Denys felt like he should say more, that he should berate Edmure for bringing harm to Lysa—but to look upon the boy, who seemed to be half scared of what would happen himself, Denys could not find it within himself to say anything… his thoughts were too wrapped up with concern that Lysa and their child would not… no, he could not think that. He had already lost one wife and child… did the Seven now see fit to take yet another pair? How could the Seven-who-are-one be so cruel? What had he done to deserve the loss of Annalys and Jasper, of Lysa and his yet unborn child? What great sin had he committed without knowing? What could he do to keep it from happening again?  
  
With these questions plaguing his mind, he left the two children to the Blackfish’s care after that and returned to his vigil outside of Lysa’s room, being joined soon after by his goodfather. They both remained in silence at first, but apparently this did not suit Hoster Tully, and to pass the time while they waited his goodfather talked, of all things about the newly appointed Kingsguard.  
  
His goodfather nearly fumed as he spoke, saying, “Bonifer Hasty refused… refused to join the Kingsguard!”  
  
“Why?” croaked Denys—not truly caring, but feeling that if Hoster was talking about this then he wouldn’t turn the conversation to Lysa.  
  
Hoster huffed before continuing, “He asked the King for the hand of the Queen Dowager in marriage.”  
  
Denys did not reply, the words seeming to glide over and off of him like water on a duck’s back.  
  
Hoster continued, ignoring that Denys had not answered, “The two have been in love ever since before she married Aerys. It took me a while to remember that. I mean, there had been rumors in my day of the Princess having a knightly admirer, but back then I hadn’t given it too much thought—no one had—everyone was concerned about the unsettling news across the Narrow Sea.”  
  
“Unsettling news?” asked Denys, which were the only two words Denys had completely grasped in that torrent of speech.  
  
His goodfather dismissively answered, “The Ninepenny Kings.”  
  
Suddenly his mind seemed to grasp what had been said, though it still felt disjointed to think.  
  
“But I thought Rhaella and Aerys married well before that war?” If Denys recalled it rightly, he’d been but a quite young infant when that marriage, Summerhall, and the war had all taken place.  
  
Hoster continued, “Rumors of the gathering forces started long before any war broke out. And while tales of a knightly romance surrounded the Princess back then, she easily enough put it aside to marry Aerys at her grandfather’s command.”  
  
“Mayhaps she feels she has more of a choice now…” offered Denys.  
  
“Aye, mayhaps…” admitted Hoster with a sigh.  
  
Curiously he wondered, “Did the king grant his request?”  
  
After a quiet moment, his goodfather responded, “He said he would be loathe to keep a man from his lady love.”  
  
Denys stared at his goodfather, caught between instant belief and sudden disbelief of what he had said.  
  
“After I assured him that the Queen Dowager was likely too old to have any more children,” admitted his goodfather with an exasperated sigh.  
  
Denys nodded, that made sense. Though Robert had given his cloak of protection to his cousin and her family, Denys had yet to see him genuinely interact with them outside of displays of public ceremony. It had been something Denys had meant to speak with Robert about, but other events had distracted him from attending to his duty. He made note of needing to do so later.  
  
Just then the door to his wife’s sickroom opened. Immediately Denys’ head snapped to the door just in time to see the Grand Maester slip out of the room and into the passageway. He looked between both him and his goodfather before sighing. That was not a good sign. Immediately his mind was brought back to all the questions about Lysa he had been dwelling on before his goodfather had distracted him.  
  
Gormon looked between both of their expectant looks and sighed before saying, “Lady Arryn has lost a lot of blood my lords, far too much to be sure as to her survival…”  
  
“No!” Denys said immediately without thinking.  
  
 _Not again, by all the Seven, not again!_  
  
Gormon continued, giving Denys a pitying look as he did, seeming to desire to be anywhere saying anything else but this, “If she survives the night, then I would say she is likely to yet live. Or she could join her child at any moment. I have done all I can do… her fate is in the Seven’s hands now…”  
  
Denys could hear no more. He had to see Lysa. They may have lost their child, but he could not bear to lose a second wife. He had to do something, just sitting out here and doing nothing and talking about the Queen Dowager held no appeal to him anymore. He pushed past Gormon and entered her sick room. He stopped at the threshold, taking a short shallow gasp of air at the sight before him.  
  
 _Seven preserve me…_  
  
The sickroom was small yet with its high vaulted ceiling and matching large windows that contained doors that led out to a balcony, felt much larger than it actually was. There was a bed, a hearth, a table, a few chairs, a chamberpot in the corner. Everything that could be needed was there. Although the hearth and several candles were lit, there seemed to be a dominance of darkness which hung about the room. Two maids who had assisted Gormon in his task hovered over the table cleaning something that Denys could not quite see, nor did he care to see.   
  
Lysa was laid out in a bloody bed, dressed in a loose fitting shift that Denys could see clung to her body with perspiration. Her skin was pale, and shone like a marble statue in the candlelight. Had he not been staring at her to see her tiny shallow breaths, he might have thought her already dead, but she yet lived. He then crossed to her side, pulling a chair next to her bed to sit beside her. He gently took her hand and squeezed it to reassure her of his presence. Her skin was cold and clammy to the touch, as though she were a trout just recently caught from the river. She seemed to shiver at his touch, and immediately Denys asked one of the maids to fetch a few extra blankets.  
  
 _Was this how it was for Annalys in the end? The Seven be damned if they take Lysa too…_  
  
He turned around and saw his goodfather standing in the threshold, looking far older than his eight and forty namedays as he starred at Lysa. His goodfather took a step further into the room, as if to join Denys. A single name escaped his lips, “Minisa”, but as soon as he said it his goodfather shook his head and instead left the room without another word or even a glance to his own daughter.  
  
Denys continued to hold his wife’s hand, almost believing that by doing so he could keep her from being taken by the Stranger. The middle-aged maid returned with the blankets, and with his free hand, Denys helped her lay the blankets over his freezing wife. When she had finished with the task she walked over to the candelabra she had brought in, picked it up and then went about the room blowing out the rest of the candles, having finished her task she walked to the door and looked surprised to see Denys still at the side of the bed.  
  
“My Lord, Maester Gormon says there’s nothing to be done but to wait ‘till morning,” said the maid with almost a hint of motherly concern.  
  
“I will stay here,” he answered firmly.  
  
“You’ll be needing your sleep as well, my lord,”   
  
“I can sleep here well enough,” answered Denys.  
  
“I would think a bed of your own would suit you more than a hard old chair, my lord,” expressed the maid with obvious kindly intentions.  
  
Denys nearly snapped at her as he replied, “This night may very well be my wife’s last, and you suggest that I abandon her?!”  
  
He stared down the maid, her overweight form trembling as he did so. After a moment of this she then said in a small, half-frightened voice, “F—forgive me, my lord I—I did not know… most lords and ladies don’t care half as much for one another…”  
  
 _Most other lords and ladies have not endured the loss of one already…_  
  
There was nothing but silence for a while, as Denys returned his gaze to Lysa. Not long after he had done so the maid spoke again, asking “I’ll be leaving my lord… do you want me to light a candle again for you?”  
  
“No,” he answered. All the light he needed the hearth could provide.  
  
Then silently and awkwardly the matronly maid left closing the door behind her. As she left Denys thought on her words and his feelings. He cared, by the Seven he cared. How could he not care? To be sure, Lysa was still very much a girl in many ways, but being only seven and ten namedays, she was close enough to one to still have some affectations. But she had improved some with time and attention—both of which she seemed to have been neglected of from her father, he had given her. She had carried their child in her womb… their child… to say that he should not care for Lysa was madness. She may not be the prettiest or the sweetest woman of his acquaintance, but she was his wife. And he would be here when she needed him the most. He knew not what to do, and he prayed to all the gods—old and new—on a sign. To give just the slightest hint on what to do.  
  
In the following moment he felt some movement in his hand and looked down to see Lysa’s frozen fingers—warmed up slightly by his—twitch and attempt to loosely grasp his in return. He looked up at her face—still as a statue—and suddenly he knew what he had to do. While still holding Lysa’s hand he did his best to kick off his boots with his feet. It was awkward maneuvering to say the least, but now that Lysa had responded he would not abandon her—even for the briefest of seconds. He then climbed into the bed next to her, having but a little space to lay on his side and nearly teetering off the edge as he did so. It was only when he had brought Lysa more firmly within his grasp, bringing her body close to his and resting her head underneath his chin that he did let go of her hand. He then took his cloak and spreading it like a falcon’s wing, covered them both in its spread. And so they remained as such until morning.  
  
He was awoken by a harsh croaking sound from next to him.  
  
“D—Denys?”  
  
His eyes snapped open and he looked down beneath his cloak upon Lysa to see that her eyes were now open, and her breathing stronger than it had been the previous night.  
  
 _She lives… by the Seven, she lives!_  
  
“Lysa!” he whispered and he held her more firmly in his grasp, kissing her forehead, and moving to better embrace her.  
  
“I nearly thought the Stranger had taken you…” he honestly admitted.  
  
“You did?” she asked dazed-like, obviously still groggy.  
  
“You lost a lot of blood… Maester Gormon said there was a chance…”  
  
“And the babe?” she asked.   
  
“I… I’m sorry, Lysa. We can try again…”  
  
Her eyes closed and a muffled but sorrowful groan escaped her lips as she cried the word “No” again and again into his shoulder, seeking his embrace.  
  
“You’re alive… that’s what matters,” half trying to assuage her grief and his at once for their unborn child’s death.  
  
And then she said two words he had not expected to hear, which caught him completely off guard, “Not again.”  
  
 _Not again?_  
  
But he had no time to think on this admission as it was just then that Grand Maester Gormon and a maid—most notably not the matronly one from last night—entered. He calmed Lysa down and urged her to allow Gormon and the woman to examine her, and after some assuring words that he would not leave her, she assented to the examination of the thoroughly surprised Gormon.  
  
 _He must have expected her to die…_  
  
Denys returned to his chair as the Maester and the maid went about examining his wife. He met her eyes, which never left his  
  
What had she meant by not again? They had been speaking of the loss of their child… had she and Jon had time to have lost a child? But then her arrival at King’s Landing would have been graver, not giddy like the young maid all dressed in black as she had been…  
  
His goodfather arrived with Ser Brynden, Edmure, and Asha as Maester Gormon had finished his examination, suggested her diet be changed to that of fish, nuts, and vegetables for the foreseeable future to help ‘replenish the blood’. The Maester then left claiming that the King had requested his company. This left Denys, his goodfamily, and his ward alone with Lysa as the maid had been dismissed by Gormon after finishing his examination.  
  
As the door closed from Gormon’s departure, Edmure ran from his father’s side and jumped onto the bed and hugged Lysa in an affectionate, troubled, and boyish manner. Crying and sobbing apologetic streams of words that could hardly be fully comprehended. Lysa was obviously caught off guard but she slowly comforted her brother while her gaze was fixed elsewhere in the room. Denys followed it to see Lysa glared at Asha. Asha stood still and lonely by the door, too awkward to further join the scene of family relief that Hoster and Ser Brynden added with their own presence. Though she put on a good face of stoic detachment, her red rimmed eyes gave away her true feelings beneath the deceptively smooth surface of her sea of emotions.  
  
Lysa meanwhile showed her true feelings without any hesitation. She spat, “Send her away!”  
  
“Lysa—” began her father.  
  
“I want her gone! I don’t want to see her here or anywhere again!” shouted Lysa.  
  
“She’s our ward,” Denys added.  
  
“She murdered our child!” retorted Lysa. At the sound of this Denys noticed that Edmure froze and a look of fear swept across his face.  
  
Not a moment later they heard the door slam shut and Asha’s absence was immediately noted.  
  
“I’ll get the girl,” said Ser Brynden as Denys looked caught between   
  
“It’s my fault…” admitted Edmure quietly and clearly for the first time.  
  
“What?” asked Lysa  
  
“I… I… told you. I pushed her,” admitted Edmure once again.  
  
Lysa’s gaze now fixed upon her younger brother.  
  
“It was an accident,” interjected Hoster before Lysa could say anything.  
  
Denys added “They got into an argument over some silly childish nonsense and it escalated into them pushing each other. Edmure’s last push just so happened to be at the top of the steps…” he explained further so that he could give his wife time to think on what she was to say, so that she might not say something she would later regret.  
  
Unfortunately his efforts were in vain.  
  
“Kinslayer.”  
  
He felt an icy tingle travel down his back like a water droplet. It was an overreaction, he thought—she was still in the pangs of sudden grief and loss, he justified, but that word still stung no matter how he tried to frame it—like she had intended. It was with that one word and one word alone that sent Edmure running for the door himself, but this time, Denys rose and grabbed hold of his goodbrother before he too could go running off into the confusing passageways of the Red Keep. Denys took Edmure into his grasp and hugged and comforted the   
  
His goodfather spoke, clearly enraged, spoke to his daughter, “I know you have lost much, Lysa, but that is completely inexcusable! He is your brother! It was an accident. You could have very well stumbled yourself down the stairs and much the same would have happened.”  
  
Suddenly an odd look crossed Lysa’s face as she said, “You’re right… it isn’t Edmure’s fault.”  
  
At this Denys sighed with relief, she was coming to her senses. But then she instead glared at her father and shouted, “It’s yours!”  
  
Edmure was calming down now, or once again shocked with fear—in either case Denys began thinking that mayhaps it would be best to send him out of the room—but he could not leave Lysa, especially now that she was taking her grief out on anyone.  
  
“You’re not thinking straight,” retorted Hoster, though Denys caught a slight quiver to his voice.  
  
“You poisoned me, remember? You told me it would make me feel better!”  
  
“Now is not the time to discuss the past,” hissed Hoster, and suddenly Denys began to suspect that they were speaking of something which he had no knowledge of.  
  
“He’s calmed down,” interjected Denys, feeling it best if Edmure left now. He would later ask his goodfather to explain what it was they were discussing. Right now, removing Edmure from Lysa’s sickroom was the important thing.  
  
His goodfather nodded, understanding what he meant and he took the still sniffling Edmure in his arms, carrying his thin and spindly son with a mess of auburn curls out of the room, leaving Denys and Lysa alone once again.  
  
Lysa broke down into tears once again, and Denys went to her side, sitting upon the edge of the bed and drawing her close to him so he could soothe her in their shared grief.  
  
She would regret what she had said to her father and brother when she was of sound mind once again, and he would help her return to it… no matter how long it took. He told her that they would have many more children, together they would repopulate the name of Arryn and she would be the mother to many. Lysa held him tighter at these words, and Denys reciprocated.


	4. Oswell II

**OSWELL**  
  
His immediate reaction was to draw his sword. The hooded man put up his arms in a gesture of surrender.  
  
“I assure you, Oswell, I come to you completely unarmed and with only my wits to defend me,” said the man.  
  
“Who are you?” demanded Oswell.  
  
“Can you not recognize my voice? Well, I suppose not,” and the man pulled back his hood to reveal himself as Varys—only he had since grown a beard it seemed. Somehow he had survived death and now lived.  
  
“I see now you know me, Oswell,” spoke Varys honestly.  
  
“Why are you here?” asked Oswell.  
  
“Cannot one exile visit another?” asked Varys with a grin.  
  
“How do you know that I am an exile?” asked Oswell, knowing that he would have to play along as the man was likely to be part of the plots against the royal family.  
  
“Because you haven’t corrected me on not addressing you as a Ser yet. I heard they had stripped you of your knighthood—quite unfair truly. I mean you were obeying the commands of your prince, weren’t you?”  
  
Oswell scoffed purposefully before saying, “What would you know about it?”  
  
“That Arthur Dayne and yourself since having been found in Dorne have been dismissed from the Kingsguard for failing to live up to your vows—though truly expecting a knight to keep every vow he swears to the letter when they conflict so easily is a   
  
Oswell had to hand it to Varys, he knew which matters and sore subjects to mention. Had he actually left the crown on worse terms than he had, Oswell felt that he might just have been tempted to trust the eunuch—against his better inclinations.  
  
“I only have one question for you, Oswell, one question and then I’ll leave,” added Varys.  
  
“And what makes you think I’ll let you ask that question?” asked Oswell as he brought his sword, hoping this would be a convincing enough display of a man who’s lost himself for the eunuch to bite.  
  
The eunuch spoke airily but with a tinge of threat phrased as a warning, “Because while I may not be armed, Oswell, you forget that I made my name here in Pentos—a name which the city well remembers. And beyond them I have little mice scurrying about the streets and in nearly every nook and cranny—if there’s a secret to be had in Pentos, I already know of it. I’ve told but a few who remember that name well of my meeting here with you this evening, should I disappear—and my little mice will know if I disappear—they will wonder what had happened to me, and then they’ll come searching for you. And believe me when I say that these people who remember me have long memories—as long as their swords, one might say.”  
  
Oswell gave a good shove to the eunuch and added a grunt for good measure. The eunuch smiled and then asked, “The babe that was at Starfall, what happened to it?” asked  
  
“Dead as far as I know,” was Oswell’s only reply.  
  
“What do you mean as far as you know? Did you see the infant dead or not?” asked Varys  
  
“You said you were only going to ask one question. You have asked that one question, now, get out!” ordered Oswell—knowing that if Varys did not get everything he was looking for, he would return, and if he would return, mayhaps he could establish some way in to help benefit the crown as Prince Oberyn had suggested.  
  
Varys chuckled, only saying, “Well played Oswell… well played indeed,” before rising and heading to the door.  
  
“By the by, I never took you for a man who enjoyed visiting a brothel. You always struck me as a man who upheld his vows,” commented Varys.  
  
“I’m not bound by any vows now,” answered Oswell gruffly as he pulled out a whetstone and began to go through the motions of sharpening his sword.  
  
“Clearly,” stated Varys, and with that said, he exited Oswell’s room.  
  
The next morning Oswell awoke to the sound of children running through the narrow streets of Pentos. He arose and dressed in a simple tunic, breeches, boots, and a knife hidden in his right boot. He then went down to the common room. There he broke his fast over a plate of mash and a swig of grog at a rough hew table by himself. As he ate, he was approached by the innkeeper’s daughter—Lysenia if he recalled her name correctly—and she sat at his table after having brought the food the inn’s cook had prepared and he’d paid her to bring, having nothing else to do as it seemed the slow hour of the morning.  
  
“Good morrow,” she greeted sweetly enough in her accented tongue. As she sat down she twirled two of her fingers in her long silver-blond hair absent-mindlessly, as if enjoying the sensation twirling and untwirling her hair gave her.  
  
He grunted in response, partly so as to not encourage her, and partly so as to keep his role as a disaffected warrior up.  
  
“Did you not sleep well last night? If not, I can speak with my father and have the mattress attended to,” commented Lysenia with some concern.  
  
“The bed was satisfying,” assured Oswell—the last thing he wanted was for the girl to call her disgruntled father over to speak with him.  
  
“Just satisfying? We’re one of the oldest inns in Pentos, we have a longstanding tradition of being a decent inn as well. Satisfying is not good enough,”  
  
“There’s no need, my little lady,” said Oswell.  
  
At this, Lysenia oddly paused and smiled. What was going through that girl’s mind? He was even more struck by what she asked next. Her fingers stopped twirling, and her hair fell back into place. She then crossed her arms and leaned over the table and in quite close to him—almost to the point where she hovered over his plate of mash—and then she asked sweetly, “What brings you here from the Sunset Kingdoms?”  
  
Knowing that Varys had not known where his room in the inn was on accident, Oswell spoke very cautiously, lest the girl be one of Varys’ oh what had he called them again? Ah, yes… ‘little mice’.  
  
He spoke steadily and with a purposeful intent, asking, “Now what would a Pentoshi innkeeper’s daughter care to hear about Westeros for?”  
  
“A Pentoshi innkeeper’s daughter hears songs of knights and fine ladies and tourneys… and wonders why anyone would want to leave such a place?”  
  
“Westeros is hardly what the songs make it out to be, of that you can be quite sure” chortled Oswell as he finished his mash.  
  
Before Lysenia could speak with him further her father called her back, and with a barely audible groan she obeyed, giving Oswell a smile before departing. She was a sweet girl, but just that… a girl.  
  
Not long after he had finished his meal did he hear a whistle which caught his attention. He turned to see the bastard son of Oberyn Martell, with his violet hair, poking his head in through a nearby window. The boy jerked his head and Oswell took it as a sign to come. He left his plate at the table, knowing that Lysenia would soon return to clean up after him. Soon he was out on the narrow street following the scurrying violet-haired Dornish Essosi. They took many twists and turns until eventually Oswell noticed that he had come to the back door of the Starry Woman. The boy looked up at a window near the ground floor and stared, as if looking for some sign. Apparently it did not come as the boy put out his arm to stop him from continuing. The boy then led him to a nearby alcove, in line of sight of the window, but secluded enough for Oswell to be disguised in shadow.  
  
“Have someone to hide from, boy?” asked Oswell.  
  
“Mother not safe if you seen,” said the boy with a broken tongue.  
  
He wanted to tell the boy that hiding wasn’t necessary since he was already known to be in the city, but considering how nervous his mother had been without that knowledge, he was sure that she wouldn’t be apt to help him now if the truth were known, so he kept quiet about Varys’ visit.  
  
Being alone with the lad, Oswell took more stock of his features. He had been mistaken to think the boy had any eyes other than his father’s—it must have been a trick of the light, and while the boy was indeed a miniature of his father, there were a few features which were slightly distorted in subtle ways, a slightly longer nose than was expected, a rounder shap to his head. Although he was obviously still a child and had some growing yet to do, Oswell wondered if the lad would indeed become   
  
“Why look at me that way?” asked the boy.  
  
“You look quite—” Oswell recalled what the boy’s mother had said, about him coming to take away her son to Prince Oberyn, and decided to simply leave it ambiguous instead, saying, “—like someone I know from home.”  
  
“A man?” asked the boy with a pointed bit of curiosity.  
  
“No, a woman,” answered Oswell, hoping that would shut down the conversation. And it was the truth to a certain extent, Princess Elia and her bastard nephew did share some features in common.  
  
The boy only snorted in response and shook his head, clearly not believing what he had said, but his eyes were caught and his head turned to more fully look at the window. Oswell did much the same and saw Andella at the window seeming to fluff out a sheet she meant to hang upon the wash line by her window. The boy then motioned for him to follow with a shake of his head, and then scurried across the crowded street to a door at the back of the Starry Woman. Oswell followed as discretely as possible, eventually following the boy into the back door which led through the kitchen and then upstairs to the chambers he had spoken with Andella in the afternoon before. There he met Andella who hugged her son and ran her hands through his hair and fussed over him in a very fast Pentoshi speech that was too quick for Oswell’s comprehension. The boy nodded and Andella smiled. She then hurried him over to a bowl of cherries on a nearby table and let him sit and eat while she and Oswell spoke.  
  
Andella spoke cautiously, “I will agree to the terms, but on one condition.”  
  
“And that would be?” asked Oswell.  
  
“Should anything happen to me, I want my son to be taken by you to Westeros and raised there. Going against the Dārys Genes is much to ask of anyone, and I want to be sure that my boy will be looked after and have a good life if I cannot provide one for him anymore.”  
  
“You needn’t ask, my lady,” answered Oswell firmly, feeling for once he could let his act down.  
  
“Good… having said that, let me say that the best place to find a rat is to find its nest. Find its nest and you can trap it,” said Andella with conviction. She then handed him a slip of paper, upon it written in the common tongue were directions to a house in the city.  
  
Andella then said, “That is not the rat’s nest, but it is a place to start looking. Commit it to memory if you can. I will write to our friend and say that I’ve given what help I can at the moment.”  
  
When he said he had memorized the directions, she then took it from him and burned the paper, and Oswell took his leave and returned to the Eight Swords. There he wrote down the directions from his memory and locked it in his trunk for safe keeping. He would wait a few nights to see if Varys would return before he would try the house. After all, why chase a rat when one could draw it closer with a pocket full of rye?


	5. Eddard

 

  
**EDDARD**

Eddard sat in the solar feeling quite uncomfortable in the chair in which his father had always sat in. It felt wrong to think of this room as his solar instead of his father’s or even Brandon’s, but like the North and Catelyn Tully it too was his now, and feeling uncomfortable within its walls would not do anyone—least of all his family—any good. So he would have to become accustomed to thinking of himself as the Lord of Winterfell and soon.

He then rose to look out his window to the courtyard below. There he saw young Raynald Westerling and Theon Greyjoy running about throwing the last of the melting snow at one another and getting each other completely soaked and dirtied under the indulging watchful eye of Old Nan. Catelyn would have a fit when she’d see them later, but Ned was simply glad that the two boys had taken to one another so well—of course the fact that Ned had purposefully asked for any clothes hinting at their family heritages be stored away somewhere out of sight may have had something to do with it, but he allowed himself to think that the two four year olds would have become fast friends if for no other reason than they were the only boys their age in all of Winterfell. Looking at the squid and the seashell laugh and run reminded him of his own days in the Eyrie with Robert. Oh how he missed the simplicity of those days…

Just then a knock was heard at the door, and Ned gathered himself and took his seat once again, arranging himself as best he could as the Lord of the castle. He then cleared his throat and told the person that they could enter as they wished.

His brother Benjen, whom he had been expecting to come speak with him for nearly a week now, entered with as much decorum as his three and ten namedays could muster. He had aged tremendously in the past year and a half since Ned had seen him. He no longer was so much a boy but was fast on his way to becoming a man. Ned motioned for Benjen to take a seat, and his brother did, nearly falling into it as he tripped over his own large feet like a pup before its growth spurt.

Benjen spoke good-naturedly, “It’s good to see you in this room at last, Ned.”

The easy smile that Benjen had shared with Brandon appeared on his face, and Ned was struck dumb by it for a moment. It was the same smile that Ned had seen upon Benjen’s face when he had seen him arrive through the Southgate a few weeks prior, of that Ned was certain.

_Does he look forward to going to the wall that much? Gods… after the way I spoke with him, I would be too…_

After having settled into the routine of being Lord of Winterfell—a routine Benjen was clearly much better at handling than Ned felt he was the first few weeks—it was then that Ned decided it was time to broach the subject of the future with Benjen. He had asked him a few days ago to speak with him in the solar when he had the time and it wasn’t until today that Benjen had taken him up on the offer.

“What is it you wanted to speak with me about?” asked Benjen. His brother’s smile faded and a mask of seriousness having since replaced it.

Ned wanted to ease into the conversation and so he began by saying, “No doubt you’ve been waiting for this talk for some time…”

“Was I to be expecting a talk of some kind?” asked Benjen

_Lyanna hasn’t told him?_

“I had told Lya to tell you that I wished to speak with you about… certain matters, but it appears our sister is forgetful,” said Ned with a slight smile, which he hoped Ben would shared.

However his three and ten nameday old brother simply looked at him with greater concern as he asked, “What do you want to speak about, Ned?”

Ned sighed and continued, “What do you want to do with your life Ben? When last we spoke… well, I apologize for what I said… It was wrong of me, I was angry, confused and tired—I’d barely made it across the Bite alive, and I’d been mulling all that time on the news of Brandon and father’s deaths. I… I should not have said any of it. Least of all to you.”

Benjen during his admission had lowered his eyes to the floor. Now that Ned had finished his brother still did not meet his eyes, instead feigning to have great interest in his awkwardly large adolescent feet.

After several moments Benjen then said rather maturely, “It is in the past, Ned.” Ned had half expected him to take his own turn at yelling at him, but Ned could now see the bit of melancholy

_He still blames himself. Gods… I shouldn’t have said it was…_

He tried to dissuade him, saying, “It wasn’t your fault Ben.”

Benjen nearly scoffed as he said, “Lya tried to tell me the same thing… but it doesn’t change anything. Father and Brandon will always be dead now.”

_So Lya did speak to him…_

  
He said hopefully, “We can only live with the past, Ben… but it need not dominate our future.”

“I will stay here until I’m a man grown, Ned. I’ve promised Lya that much.”

“Is that what you truly want, Ben?” asked Ned.

Benjen was silent for a while before shrugging his shoulders and saying, “I know not…”

“If it’s what you truly want, then when you are a man grown I won’t stop you from going. But, since I am Lord of Winterfell now, I need to consider other options for your future if you do not choose that one. I need to consider what would be best for the family.”

At this Benjen at long last met his eyes.

Ned spoke truly, “Our family name is dangerously close to withering out, Ben.”

“Cousin Benjen and Aunt Branda in Barrowton—” began Benjen firmly.

Ned retorted, “They took Brandon in to foster because they knew they wouldn’t have any children of their own.”

Benjen sighed and then offered, “Great Uncle Brandon…”

“Has a half-ruined keep in the Wolfswood somewhere and no one has heard from him in over a decade. Gods, he didn’t even come out to go to Bear Island when his mother’s kin rallied the Wolfswood and Mountain Clans. He might be dead for all we know. And our Cousin Brandon died before our brother was fostered. In fact, that’s why father was asked by Benjen and Branda if they could foster our brother. The only other close relatives we have are our Great Aunt’s and all her children bear the name of Royce. We are the only ones left to keep the name of Stark alive. Gods forbid something should happen to myself and Robb, that leaves you and any children you may have.”

“You could always have a large litter of children,” countered Benjen.

Ned bristled at the thought of comparing children to a kennel’s worth but put that thought aside as he admitted, “I intend to, but say Catelyn cannot?”

Benjen obviously seemed to be pulling at straws as he said, “Then there’s Jon.”

_Aye, then there’s Jon. Ashara’s son… who one day might leave the North to see his mother’s family and might never return…_

Ned said, “He is a Snow and whatever future awaits him, he has the opportunity to make it for himself because of that name.”

“So I have no choice, then?” asked Benjen with all the sullenness an adolescent could muster.

Ned did not want to be put into the same position that Father had been in and admitted as much, “I didn’t say that, Ben…”

Benjen scoffed, “You may as well have.”

“Would it be so bad to marry, have two sons, see them grown into strong capable young men, and then, if you still desire it, you could join the Night’s Watch? It is honorable to join the Night’s Watch, this is true, but the Wall will still be there when you are near forty as much as it is there today.” answered Ned.

Benjen once again was silent, but then met his eyes and asked, “And how would I support this family?”

Ned felt relief flood through him before he replied, “When I was planning on returning from Bear Island, I had to send a ship all the way down our western coast, through Blazewater Bay, through the Saltspear, and to the mouth of the Barrow River. There is no port of easy access on our western coast. A few fishermen’s docks at Deepwood Motte and other scattered fishing villages like Ashby exist, but there is no western equivalent to White Harbor. The closest is Seaguard in the Riverlands. And while my wife and son may have Tully blood, relying on Seaguard as our western port of call for untold generations to come would be unwise—not to mention that would mean having to deal with that weasely House Frey more frequently than I would desire.”

Ned took a breath before continuing, “With Euron Greyjoy still yet to be found, and Bear Island an island of children, we need some kind of harbor on our western shores, Ben. The Iron Isles are weak now, and we have their Lord fostered here. They’re the only reason I could see not to found a harbor of some sort, and if Theon Greyjoy is raised properly we might be able to count on the Ironborn as an ally should the worse arise. Euron is still out there, but with the rest of them beaten back, it’s the perfect opportunity to build some sort of harbor and build its defenses strong. King Jon Stark built the Wolf’s Den and thus founded the beginnings of White Harbor to drive pirates from our eastern shores. I would have you do as much for our western shores. You would be master of your own holding and sworn directly to Winterfell, but it would be yours to command, Ben.”

From the look upon Benjen’s face, Ned knew that the offer was attractive to him, “And where would I have this holding?”

Ned pulled out a map of the North and laid it across the desk, inviting Benjen to have a look. As he spoke of the lands in question—remembering what he had read about them from his grandfather Rodrik, “the Wandering Wolf” Stark’s accounts from having traveled across all the North before traveling to Essos and join the Second Sons Company—he pointed them out to Benjen, saying, “I have two lands that are yours to choose from: the Stony Shore or Sea Dragon Point. Both are without any kind of organization and each have their benefits and limitations.”

Pointing to the furthest portion of the western coast from Winterfell, he said, “The Stony Shore is the furthest away in terms of distance by land and would need a road built to it for ease of travel, but it is the heart of our western coast and as close to Cape Kraken as it is to Bear Island. It already has a few fishing villages like Ashby, and it would give you command of the Blazewater River and its tributaries that go up into the mountains, plus whatever resources you can find amongst those hills. It isn’t heavily forested, but it has trees enough to build a Harbor with.”

Moving his finger north to the cape shaped in the head of a dragon, Ned then said, “Sea Dragon Point is fully forested and has many resources, most especially lumber, and it would be quite close to Bear Island should Euron Greyjoy return. It’s abandoned though, full of old ruined keeps from before the Great Spring Sickness, and has grown quite wild in the last century. You would have to attract people to the point as there are few fishing villages that aren’t already sworn to House Glover near there. A road would have to be built to your harbor, but it would be a much shorter road than anything required for the Stony Shore.”

Benjen met his eyes and smirked, “You’ve been planning this out for a while.”

_What else do you think I’ve been doing for the past few week, Ben?_

Ned admitted, “As a Stark and my brother, you deserve the best consideration for your future. Father told me that he’d find a keep somewhere either near the mountain clans or in the Wolfswood and I would get to choose my wife. That was all I was to expect and all I’d ever get from him. I’d give you a bit more, and besides… I—I owe it to you.”

Benjen spoke, seeing clearly through to what he was trying to say, and Ned thanked the gods that he could do so, “You want me to stay.”

“Aye… we’ve lost father and Brandon. Lya… well, Lya will be Queen. The pack is splitting apart Ben… can you blame me for wanting to keep as much of it together as I can?” Ned asked Benjen.

“No…” answered Benjen stoically.

A long silence fell between them both before Benjen continued, obviously having thought on the situation the entirety of the time, “If I choose to do this, I also want to be able to choose my wife, Ned. Father gave that to you, I’d do as much myself.”

Ned nearly smiled, but kept his feelings under control, knowing that he needed at this moment to be Lord Eddard, even if he was talking to his pup of a brother, “Of course… if anyone should make an offer, I’ll bring the offers to you, but in the end the choice will still be yours.”

Benjen, now looked all his three and ten namedays, his mask of maturity seeming to slip slightly as he admitted, “This is more than I ever imagined I’d get… how am I going to manage a harbor, Ned? I know next to nothing of ships and ports."

Ned assured his brother, "Worry not, we have a few years yet before you are a man grown. Plenty of time for you to learn all that you need."

"But who will teach me?” asked Benjen

It was then that Ned noticed a letter from White Harbor that had arrived not long ago. Although it was from Ser Davos, it was mentioned as having been written down for him by a notary of the city. Ser Davos spoke that all the best land on the eastern coast had already been claimed. Ned had been set to respond about sailing for the western coast then, but now he saw an opportunity to help both his brother and reward the newly-made knight.

“Ben, I think I know exactly whom you can speak with,” answered Ned, and this time he allowed a slight smile.

Benjen groaned, “Don’t tell me you’re sending me to Lord Manderly.”

Ned shook his head and then answered, "Eventually you must speak with him, but for right now you could discuss with someone who has experience with ports outside of the North… someone who helped me bring our sister back, whom I promised a keep and a little land as a knight to in the North. Your first bannerman, Ben, Ser Davos.”


	6. Brynden

******BRYNDEN**  
  
How he had ended up in charge of twelve children, only the Seven knew. Twelve children! His own nephew, ten squires of varying ages from seven to fourteen from nearly every house in the Riverlands with an available heir to send to “squire with the Blackfish”, and one girl, the Ironborn, Asha Greyjoy. Asha had been a last minute addition as Lysa had refused to foster the girl in the Eyrie with her as was originally planned by her husband. Hoster, being ever the opportunistic man he was had then decided to step in and suggest that Asha be fostered instead at Riverrun, in order to “ease Lysa’s sorrows”.  
  
But Brynden could see exactly where his brother’s mind was going—he was hoping for a possible marriage for Edmure to come from the fostering, Brynden just knew it. Just to spite his brother’s plotting Brynden hoped one of the other boys would end up winning the girl’s heart. That would serve Hoster right! Well, mayhaps not the Frey boy, Perwyn. It wasn’t like his father deserved anything after his lack of loyalty during the rebellion.  
  
That was one situation that Brynden had been completely behind his brother on: the humbling of House Frey. During the war House Frey under Lord Walder had played as a neutral party, claiming that in all cases they could not mobilize their forces in time to join the army. As such penalties for sitting the war out and disobedience to the command that he call his banners were brought upon the old weasel’s head. Tolls on the bridge were to be set by House Tully and a levy was placed on the tolls received by House Frey for their crossing, with portions to be sent to both Seaguard and Riverrun for as long as Lord Walder remained alive. Notaries and toll collectors loyal to House Tully would visit the Twins every moon to review its records and collect the levies.  
  
If House Frey was caught in holding larger portions of the tolls than they were allowed, severe punishment would be meted out. In addition Hoster threatened to take nearly every land but the lands immediately surrounding the Twins from House Frey and “build a second bridge” across the Green Fork down river if House Frey showed any reluctance to meet these demands. The only part Brynden had any quibble with was the penalty being dependent on Lord Walder’s life. Lord Walder was an old man, having lived to see six and seventy namedays—not a tremendously old man as others had lived longer lives amongst the noble houses of Westeros, but old nonetheless. He could croak next month or be quietly killed by his own relations being more likely. However given the way Hoster and Lord Walder’s heir and age peer with Hoster, Ser Stevron corresponded over the years, mayhaps that was exactly what Hoster was prepared for the most. Lord Walder’s eldest son by his current marriage to Bethany, formerly of House Rosby, Perwyn, was officially brought to Riverrun with the hopes that relations between the two houses could be amended in the peace, though Brynden recognized it as a blatant way to sweeten the sour deal for Lord Walder.  
  
The other charges under his watch included Lord Jason Mallister’s young son of seven namedays, Patrek, the youngest of the group and barely old enough to squire in Brynden’s opinion. Marq Piper who was of age with Edmure had quickly become his fast friend in addition to sheltering the young Patrek under his wing from the other boys who jape the young eaglet, was otherwise vain but a decent with a wooden sword. Liam Mooton and Lymond Goodbrook, whose families had sided with the Targaryens were brought to Riverrun with the hopes of healing the wounds of war, both boys were of the quiet variety and kept to themselves. Ronald and Hugo Vance were two brothers of nine and eight who Brynden predicted with the amount of mischief they got into would give him grey hairs before he was fifty—something he had managed to avoid until now. Tristan Ryger was another boy... truly he had done nothing spectacular in Brynden’s eyes. Tristan simply occupied space, did what drills he told him to do, ate his food, and slept. There was nothing remarkable or interesting to say about the young Ryger heir. Brynden Blackwood—whom his father had obviously named after him for their shared time in the Ninepenny War—and Hendry Bracken were both sent to Riverrun in an attempt to keep both families in check that the Tullys would favor neither Bracken nor Blackwood more than the other. Both boys frequently got into fisticuffs over some imagined slight or other over their families or lands. Their fights were so regular; one could nearly tell time by which number of fight had broken out between the two. Of all his charges, the one and ten Perwyn was the most well behaved and most attentive to his swordplay, even if he was a Frey. Mayhaps it was his mother’s Rosby blood which made him turn out for the better.  
  
Then of course there was Asha Greyjoy…  
  
The girl at first had been sullen upon their arrival at Riverrun—as she had been ever since the push at the tournament. For Brynden, having her be sullen hadn’t been wholly that bad as Edmure had likewise been sullen and withdrawn. The two made quite a mopey pair the entire journey, almost seeming to be trying to out-mope one another, but Brynden knew better than to suspect either child of doing that. In truth, they likely felt horrible at nearly causing the death of Lysa—and the first brush with death, no matter the age, was a thing worthy of contemplation and bit of moping in Brynden’s opinion.  
  
 _It’ll make them appreciate what little they have all the more…_  
  
But once all the other boys had arrived to distract Edmure, Asha had withdrawn even further into herself, becoming quick to anger and get a rise from with the smallest of provocations. One week she made a large deal over how she did not wish to be treated as a lady. She made that abundantly clear one particular morning causing the Septa requested specifically for her to interrupt his lessons with the boys so she could thrown a torn and muddied dress at him, exclaiming that the child could go naked for all she cared. Thinking if the girl didn’t want to wear dresses he decided to try giving her old, shabby, nearly worn out pairs of trousers and other boy’s clothes that were too small for Edmure, and Asha immediately took a liking to wearing them and her mood improved nearly over night. It hadn’t been the reaction Brynden had expected. Catelyn and Lysa would have balked at the idea of wearing anything so shabby, but Asha seemed to love the excuse to wear them out even further climbing the parapets and finding rocks to throw into the Tumblestone below.  
  
The next phase in her campaign against being a lady came when she decided one day that she would not go to her lessons with her Septa. When her first few attempts to skip out on lessons had been discovered and she was forced by a guard to sit in the same room as the Septa, the situation simply grew worse. The shrill woman could be heard clear across the castle arguing with the stubborn squid, once again disrupting his lessons with the boys.  
  
Eventually after things quieted down, Brynden would notice that the Greyjoy girl had sneaked outside to watch as his young squires’ practice. Occasionally he’d notice she would pick up a weapon carelessly laid aside by one of his squires—usually either Brynden or Hendry so they could continue a fight they’d started earlier once they had grown bored having accomplished the tasks he’d set for them to accomplish—and attempt to use it. At first he thought to chide Asha until she lazily had taken aim with a small knife and hit an empty target rather decently. That alone had shocked him and caused him later to seek out the girl.  
  
“So you favor a knife?” asked Brynden casually.  
  
“My nuncle taught me...” answered the squid girl simply.  
  
“To defend yourself?” asked Brynden with some curiosity  
  
“To kill greenlanders,” retorted Asha as this time—after the hundredth or so throw—the knife stuck directly in the center of the target.  
  
She had talent and determination, of that Brynden had to admit. Given enough time and practice she could become an excellent marksman with a throwing knife, mayhaps even graduate to a deadlier weapon like a throwing axe that Ironborn were so fond of. Brynden shivered at the thought of waking up to find an axe thrown straight for his head. These were dangerous lines to encourage a young squid in, but it seemed that turning the girl into the Maiden reborn would not win her affection and loyalty. If anything it would only sew the seeds of destruction and distrust further. It was then Brynden thought of a potential way he could turn this for his favor.  
  
“Would you care to join the rest of the boys in their lessons?” offered Brynden, while he silently prayed to the Seven this would work.  
  
“But then how will I be a proper lady?” scoffed Asha with the cynicism of a child much older than her young years.  
  
“You have talent with a knife, mayhaps one day you might be able to throw an axe as well if you keep up your practice,” suggested Brynden.  
  
At this Asha looked up at him with at once suspicious but also hungry and appreciative eyes. He’d seen that look before in Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure—all for different reasons, but he recognized it all the same. Yes… this was the way to win her loyalty.  
  
She noticed that he had seen her drop her guard, and shook her head and tried to counter cooly, “My nuncle would’ve taught me.”  
  
He reminded her, “But your nuncle is not here. I am.”  
  
She agreed with a mumble, “Aye… for now, until you get tired of me…”  
  
Of course… how could he have been so blind as to not see it before? Shuffled around and abandoned by lord after lord—forsaken even by her own family in the form of her mother’s brother—of course she would think that way. She wasn’t the type to respond well to pity, that Brynden knew right off, but how to appease her?  
  
“I expect you to be dressed and ready tomorrow for your first lesson. I expect you to work just as hard as my squires and nephew. If you don’t then it's back to the Septa," said Brynden definitively.   
  
And the next day she was there alongside Patrek Mallister as the two youngest amongst his charges. Throwing knives were what she did well with, and learning how to hold a wooden sword held little interest for her. Initially the bow and arrows held little interest for her, but with much practice over the next few moons she began to become a better shot, in fact she worked at the skill with so much determination that she began to surpass a few of his charges in the skill—most notably Edmure—who had begun to find excuses to keep from practicing on his own accord, and spending his few free hours getting into all sorts of mischief with the Vance brothers and Marq Piper. Unfortunately he was not the only one to notice this discrepancy in skill and one day when Edmure had opened his mouth and said something without thinking to Liam Mooton about his lack of skills with a wooden sword, the boy had retorted with little thought that he was one to talk with a girl being a better shot with a bow than he was. Brynden had broken up the fight that had broken out shortly thereafter with the help of his Blackwood namesake and Hendry Bracken.  
  
That of course had prompted the kind of ribbing that boys left to one another will be apt to do, leading to his nephew—the fool that he was—challenging the squid girl to an impromptu archery competition that he promptly showed just how his neglect of practicing had paid off. While Asha was far from a markswoman, she had quite clearly done better than Edmure. Brynden observed these interactions with an amused detachment—hoping that the squid girl’s abilities would prompt some kind of response from Edmure to take his training more seriously. It did in fact do just that, leading Edmure to spend the majority of his free hours standing in front of a target with a bow and arrows in hand. The only drawback to this was the fool decided to do this in any weather, refusing to give up any possible hour of practice.  
  
When it began to rain heavily, Brynden had had enough and he dragged his cold and soaked nephew in from the range. A blanket and fresh clothes were found, while Edmure was brought before a warm hearth, but by the sneeze and slight cough his nephew had at the evening’s end, Brynden knew that the damage had been done. Well, the boy would learn his lessons the hard way or not at all, it seemed. Seven see that he learn many things before becoming Lord of the Riverlands.  
  
The next day Edmure was reluctant to rise and break his fast until Hendry Bracken was sent with permission to drag him from his bed if need be. His red-rimmed, bleary-eyed, groggy, and stuffy nosed nephew appeared at the table not too long thereafter. Brynden didn’t let the fact that Edmure had a slight cold bother him at all. It was the boy’s own fault and he’d have to deal with the consequences of his own actions. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself as Edmure spilled food off his plate, dropped the arrows from their quiver, or was knocked over during his practice sword fight with Lymond Goodbrook. Brynden even managed to continue telling himself this when Edmure managed to purge his stomach of all his bile upon the grass—the third time only producing a tiny amount of spittle.  
  
“Ser Brynden, shouldn’t he see the maester?” asked the quiet Tristan Ryger after this last time. And it was upon this prompting alone that Brynden caved in his stubbornness to have Edmure learn his lesson the hard way and had Tristan help Edmure up to the maester’s tower.  
  
It wasn’t until after dinner had been served and consumed that Brynden spoke with the worried maester, who said rather bluntly, “He is not well, Ser Brynden. He’s not well at all. He has terrible shivers, in addition to a horridly high temperature. He can barely keep his water down. If things continue to get any worse for young Lord Edmure, it might be time to begin praying to the Stranger.”  
  
No other words he had heard in his life before or since had managed to scare or shock him so completely than those.


	7. Oberyn

**OBERYN**  
  
He enjoyed spending time with his girls, all four of them. In some ways he could see parts of himself dispersed amongst each of them as well as their mothers. Strong Obara who was one and ten namedays, had chosen his spear over her mother’s tears—even if she did look like her mother for the most part—and was determined to live up to the legacy of her ancestress Nymeria. Then his eight namedays old daughter named for that same ancestress but was far more like her Volantene aristocrat of a mother, but then she had taken an interest in a knife he had given her recently for her last nameday. Then there was sweet six namedays old Tyene who was very much of fair stony Dornish complexion and whose sweetness hid a devious little mind that he recognized as kin to his own. Lastly of his girls was his Sarella, who was only two namedays old and who he had just recently brought to Sunspear. She was as dark-skinned as her lovely mother, the Summer Isles ship’s captain, had been, and always seeming to get into something—having the curiosity which had kept him at Oldtown for a time. He adored his girls and doted on them well, calling them his little Sand Snakes.  
  
Their newest companions in King’s Landing were their cousin Rhaenys—who Elia brought frequently to play with his girls when Rhaenys wasn’t in her lessons, and Mya Stone an interesting girl herself. Being only three namedays old, the toddler Mya Stone, bastard daughter to the newly crowned King, who shared his hair and eyes, was limited in how she could participate with his daughters on their schemes—most often being left behind with Sarella and Rhaenys on the more complex ones—but Tyene and Nymeria took to playing with and even doting on the little stubborn toddler and finding ways of calming and coaxing the girl when her hopeless Septa could not. The only thing that kept them from interacting more frequently from the stone stag was the fact that unlike his daughters, Mya Stone did not live in the Red Keep. Instead she was kept in a decent home (though not a manse) with a Septa and a few servants to look after her between her father’s visits or hers to the Red Keep after the King had agreed that the Sand Snakes to be suitable companions for his bastard daughter. The King visited his daughter frequently from what Oberyn could tell, and seemed inclined to want to spoil her as much as he was able to as a kind of compensation for not being able to keep her closer than he could.  
  
“Father, do we have any brothers?” asked Obara, breaking him from his reverie.  
  
He commented, “None that I know of. Are you tired of your sisters?”  
  
Obara’s look at Nymeria and Tyene playing in their pretty dresses by a table full of cups was all he needed to understand her mind. Of course his eldest would want to fight with a brother. When he had been about her age, he’d had plenty of older brothers to spar with and enjoy the company of. Why should she be any different?  
  
He laughed and said, “If I ever find that you have any brothers, Obara, you will be the first person I tell, of that you have my word.”  
  
His eldest seemed pleased with this and she returned to practicing with her spear, and he gave her a few pointers on her form before leaving her to her practice as he had found her before entering the gardens of the Red Keep. He then joined his two middle daughters in what appeared to be a private little brunch, only when he asked what they were doing did he realize what the situation truly was.  
  
Tyene announced with a wicked little grin of her own, “Nymeria’s rying to find the poisoned cup!”  
  
And as he listened to the childish game of Tyene “poisoning” one of the eight cups before him with an invisible dye that would stain the lips blue for a short time of whomever drank it. Nymeria was attempting to guess the correct one that Tyene had hidden, Oberyn marveled at his two daughters’ craftiness. He joined their game for a round and managed to find the poisoned cup easily—Tyene gave it away with subtle hints in her body language that she’d not yet learned to mask nor Nymeria had yet to learn to read—but pretended not to know and so he playfully teased them by drinking the poisoned cup. He then made an overly melodramatic death swoon as he fell to the ground, speaking about his untimely death in a manner most songs eulogized of dead heroes.  
  
“No, no, no! Now you’re dead!” pouted Nymeria as she tried wiping off the blue dye from his lips.  
  
“There’s nothing you can do for me Nym… it is… too late! Bury me in the Water Garden, girls, in a sunny spot that overlooks the sea…” and he gave an overdone groan in his pretend death throws.  
  
“Now you’re just being silly. That’s not poison, its just dye,” laughed Tyene.  
  
Immediately knowing that to linger playing dead might scare his girls—or why else would Tyene insist on breaking the illusion and ending the game like that—he immediately shifted to his side and said, “Oh, it is?”  
  
Tyene and Nymeria immediately tried laughing it off but the way Nymeria clung to him and then Tyene joined her spoke loudly that mayhaps he had taken their little game a bit too far for their comfort.  
  
Just as he hugged both his girls he then took notice that by a nearby calm fountain sat Ellaria Sand, Lord Uller’s six and ten—no just recently seven and ten she had said—bastard daughter. She was not a great beauty, but in her own exotic looks and manners from her Lyseni mother, Ellaria held a beauty all her own. She had a larger nose than most, but this on her guant face and tanned skin seemed to excentuate her attractiveness. Her long dark hair was adorned with weaves of red, yellow, and purple strands of false hair—the colors of her father’s banners. She had escorted his girls on their journey up from Sunspear upon his request as he thought she would and now having arrived he’d seen to it that she be part of his official household in continuing to see to their needs. She did such an excellent job of it he could almost imagine her as mother to all four of his girls and was quickly becoming desirous that any future children he would have would be with her. Ellaria sat watching over his youngest Sarella and the king’s bastard Mya played in the shallow waters of the fountain. He watched as Ellaria playfully joined Sarella and Mya in a game of splashing and wave making the water soaking her silks and giving Oberyn the barest glimpse of her body beneath. She seemed to feel his stare because she looked up and took notice of him. Their eyes were caught with one another and he could see a fiery intensity—like that of her father’s banner—within them. He was entranced. Never before had a woman ever so enamored him.  
  
“Father…” complained Tyene as she struggled to wiggle free from his firm and overlong held grasp, breaking the spell that Ellaria had had him under. He let his two daughters go and they abandoned the table of eight cups for another game that took them further into the hedgerows of the gardens. He likewise abandoned the table of eight cups and was about to join Ellaria and the youngest girls by the fountain when a guard approached him, saying that the Grand Maester was searching for him and wished to speak with him.  
  
Oberyn grumbled to himself about the Tyrell-born master always interrupting his pleasure and gave a brief nod of departure to Ellaria so she would know to tell his girls that he had to leave when he would later be missed.  
  
The Grand Maester discovered him and the guard on their journey to the Maester’s Tower. Gormon was the sight of a thin Mace Tyrell with greying hair. He carried with him two letters which Gormon seemed to have felt were priority. One of which came with no sigil pressed into the misshapen white wax seal, and the other obviously came from Sunspear with the orange wax clearly indented with a speared sun.  
  
 _What could Doran want now?_  
  
Oberyn thanked Gormon for his due diligence in delivering the letters and then proceeded to his own compartments so he could read his received missives in private.  
  
Doran kept in close contact having connections all over Westeros, sharing whatever information he could find with Oberyn when necessary—all of which was written in code and took an hour to decipher at least. He’d save Doran’s news for later. First he would satiate his curiosity of who had sent the mysterious letter.  
  
The letter he quickly surmised came from Oswell, though with the nearly illegible writing and perfumed scent he immediately surmised that it actually came from Andella… ahh the first whore he’d had in Essos, and quite the pleasure they had had of one another.  
  
He continued reading to find that Oswell had indeed made it safely to Pentos and had made contact not only with her but with Varys—who went by the name of the Dārys Genes, or Rat King, since his informants in Pentos were called “little mice”.  
  
 _That explains the “squeak squeak”..._  
  
Oberyn felt his blood boil that the man had tried to have him assassinated, but he put these feelings aside and continued reading on.  
  
None of this of course was written plainly but in a kind of double speech that looked like nonsense at first. He could only assume that Oswell meant the Dārys Genes to be Varys as what other “cut man” did they both know? Lastly Oswell ended the letter promising to look after his seed and fulfill his word.  
  
It took Oberyn a moment to realize exactly what Oswell meant by “his seed” but when he had he smiled—it seemed the old bat had taken him up on his suggestion after all. That of course left Oberyn with the task of seeing to it that the young Lady Shella Whent was looked after properly. The girl was either two and ten or three and ten and would need a betrothal in a few years. He made a note to review a few Riverlands houses and speak with Lord Tully later on the subject when he returned from Riverrun.  
  
Then Oberyn took to decoding Doran’s message, soon learning that the young lioness of Casterly Rock was to visit King’s Landing along with her brother the Lord and uncle the regent, officially to swear loyalty to the King but most likely on a mission to attempt to betroth the girl to the younger brother of the King. Doran also spoke of how the pretender Aegon faired in the North under Lord Eddard’s care and that any point on gathering further information about the likely Blackfyre was a moot point as it seemed no one else knew who or where he was nor seemed to care anymore. Lastly Doran asked him to give his love to Elia and his nieces.  
  
Oberyn burned both letters, knowing it unwise to keep either in case his purge of Varys' little birds of the Red Keep had missed a few.


	8. Hoster

**HOSTER**  
  
When Grand Maester Gormon had handed him the letter from Riverrun, Hoster had thought himself well in the clear. Lysa had recovered and was set to leave for the Vale in a moon with Denys, he’d apologized for his rash actions and she’d listened to him at the very least. The King was once again under complete supervision and being urged to settle a matter on Cracklaw Point as to a border dispute on whether it should belong to the Seat of the Narrow Sea or to the Crown directly—which would involve a trip to the point and its wild collection of First Men clans that the King was sure to enjoy conversing with. The matter though would have to wait until the next full moon to be settled, and so the King spent his days at Hoster’s prodding of touring the vineyards and farmlands of the Crownlands as a kind of goodwill expedition. Hoster had encouraged the King to be out and amongst his people, stating that only an usurper would fear being amongst his own people. But then the letter with the red wax seal of a trout had arrived in his hands, bearing the horrible news it had. Only being able to write a quick note to Denys on seeing that the capital was looked after in the King’s absence, Hoster had taken a horse and ridden as fast as he could all the way to Riverrun, barely stopping to eat, sleep, and defecate—all that seemed unimportant with Edmure’s life easing out of him. Why were the Seven testing him now? Was Cat next? Brynden? Or mayhaps himself at the end of a long line of near-misses and accidents?  
  
To say that Brynden had been negligent would be simply stating the obvious. Brynden had been more than negligent but he’d also been bloody obstinate, just like he’d always been. Instead of doing the sensible thing of keeping Edmure in bed so he could rest and heal, he instead had insisted that Edmure “work through it” and consider it his “punishment” for his foolishness at being beaten by the Greyjoy girl.  
  
 _What was Brynden thinking?_  
  
Hoster was prepared to give his brother an earful of his mind, but upon his arrival at Riverrun the sight of his brother’s pained expression, clear lack of sleep, and refusal to eat much at all had dulled Hoster’s desire to censure him. His four and forty nameday old brother still looked almost as he had a decade previous—he had lived a healthy vigorous nearly unsullied existence after all, minus the cut part—but there were now obvious signs of age and weary—lines were beginning to form from sleepless nights. He would still give him his thoughts, but it was nowhere near the fire and brimstone he had been preparing to give him upon first receiving his letter in the capital.  
  
He asked Brynden immediately upon isolating him in his solar, “How could you?”  
  
Brynden looked confused by his question.  
  
Hoster continued, “He is my son. The only one I’ll ever have—the only future our House has. He could die and you know where that puts House Tully?”  
  
“I’m not blind!” recoiled Brynden with a pained expression.  
  
“So you say,” scoffed Hoster.  
  
Brynden began, “Catelyn’s boy, should the worst happen could—”  
  
Hoster cut him off saying, “Robb is a Stark, not a Tully. And besides if I were to name him my heir his father might move to make his bastard fallen star the heir to Winterfell.”  
  
“She could have more sons,” offered Brynden.  
  
Hoster countered, “Or have all daughters, or die in her next pregnancy like Minisa… when considering the future of our house it’s best not to assume we’ll have more heirs than we actually do.”  
  
Brynden was growing more irritated as he suggested, “Lysa might have a future son.”  
  
Hoster sighed and felt guilt consume him. At the time it had been the sensible thing to do—if she had carried the child to full term, the betrothal with the Lannisters might have fallen through—seven hells she may have died giving birth at such a young age or destroyed any future chance of having any more children. But despite keeping Lysa’s child a secret and killing it before it had come out of her the alliance had still fallen through because of damned Aerys.  
  
 _And now she’s lost another child…_  
  
He sighed and fully admitted, “She might never carry a child to full term thanks to me.”   
  
Brynden’s irritation waned and he nodded his head, and the two brothers sat in the longest silence either had ever endured in each other’s company in many years.   
  
Finally Hoster felt the need to continue by saying, “If Edmure dies, I’d leave Riverrun to you when I meet the Stranger. And after you die, who then is left to carry on our house name? No one. This is how houses become extinct, by pinning too many hopes on one person to bear the load for the rest of the family.”  
  
Brynden frowned, clearly picking up on the not-so-subtle dig he’d buried in there for him. He then stated, “You could marry again.”  
  
“And have another son? No guarantee that I could do so, and I’m getting to be too old and too tired. Seven hells, I’m nearly fifty, Brynden. By the time any theoretical son I’d have becomes a man grown, assuming I marry and sire him within the next moon, I’ll be well over sixty and too old to be of any damn use—hell, I might even be dead, we’re not all Walder Frey after all. And with being Hand of the King, I already feel as if I’ve aged a decade in the last year alone.”  
  
Brynden had nothing to say in retort, and Hoster wondered what conclusion he could possibly come to. Would he consider? No. He had made it abundantly clear he would not—after nearly thirty years of refusal, he was far too stubborn and obstinate to change now. Edmure would remain the only hope for House Tully, of that Hoster could feel in his bones.  
  
So Hoster stood and looked his blackfish of a brother in the eye and left him with these parting thoughts, “My son with his ragged little breaths is the only chance at our family name continuing on… and if he dies so does our House.”  
  
Having said his say Hoster left his brother in his solar to think on what he’d said, finding his way to the castle Sept. He entered the quiet and sacred place and found himself soon alternating his prayers before the father and the mother. He asked for compassion and mercy from the mother, and for justice from the father. He was just about to turn to the Stranger to pray that he spare Edmure’s life, when the doors to the Sept burst open and in came Brynden, obviously quite perturbed about something.  
  
“I know what you’re trying to do, Hoster! And may the Seven damn your opportunistic hide for it!” blustered his brother. The Septon who had been chanting a prayer as he spread some incense around the chapel immediately stopped and gave Brynden a dirty look for swearing so openly in the Sept.  
  
“What?” asked Hoster, genuinely rattled by his brother’s disturbance of his prayer and quiet solitude.  
  
The wind beneath his brother’s sails seemed to die down, his fury calm and he sighed and leaned in in an exhausted and defeated manner saying, “You win, Hoster. After all these years, you win. I give you my word as a Tully that I’ll do it, but know that I’ll choose, know that. I’ll be the one to choose!”  
  
Having said his say, Brynden stormed out of the Sept leaving the Septon to grumble at his equally noisy and near blasphemous departure and Hoster still in shock.  
  
Hoster was still confused as to what Brynden meant as he then stormed out of the Sept. Hoster though had no time to consider his words as the master had called him to come immediately to his son’s chambers as the boy had called out for him. Hoster immediately rushed to his son’s chambers worry that he had been too late in his prayers, that he couldn’t have made a Seven-folded wreath like Minisa could to protect him that he hadn’t done enough, that he had failed his son.  
  
Edmure was pale of complexion, and quite clammy, reminding him of how Lysa had been all too recently, and thus how Edmure’s mother had looked on her own deathbed.   
  
_Seven preserve him! I can’t lose him, not now… little boys do not die of colds. Let him live… please let him live!_  
  
In the room was the Greyjoy girl—the instigator of all these accidents, he now thought on it. She seemed to be urging Edmure that he wasn’t so sick and that he should get up so she could beat him again. Hoster was about to make his presence known when he heard his son reply to the squid.  
  
“I’m better… now,” answered his son with a cough. There was something odd about the scene before him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something that did not make sense. More than anything else that now kept Hoster back for a moment as he watched his ten nameday old son interact with the seven nameday Ironborn girl.  
  
“You don’t sound it,” replied the squid girl.  
  
“No… with a bow,” retorted Edmure.  
  
“Well, then get up and prove it!” insisted the girl with a shove.  
  
Hoster was about to speak his mind when his son rolled his eyes and rejoined with a few coughs, “I’ll remember this when… I’m better! I’ll annoy you… in your sick bed!”  
  
“You’ll never see me in a sick bed. Being in a bed all day is what makes people sick,” countered the squid girl.  
  
Edmure groaned and rolled onto his side away from facing the Greyjoy girl, crossing his arms and closing his eyes as he did so.  
  
In response the girl climbed onto the bed to be sure he heard her, saying just audibly, “Find me when you’re truly ready to start getting better. I’ll be waiting to beat you again!” And with that the girl bounced off the bead and was about to go running out of the room when she caught sight of Hoster. She froze in an instant, her easy charm and bountiful good mood immediately icing over with a frosty outer layer obscuring her true emotions below.  
  
“My son needs his rest,” was all he could manage to croak, in a manner quite reprimanding.  
  
Asha Greyjoy slowly nodded her head, her eyes transfixed with his own, and then without a word she scurried out of the room faster than a rat off of a sinking ship. Hoster gave her a discerning look as she exited the room. When she had left, he then crossed to his son’s bed and pulled a chair next to it by his half-drowsy son, who breathed in slow disjointed shallow little breaths. He was so fragile, Hoster feared to touch his son—less he inadvertently kill him.  
  
“How are you my son?” asked Hoster.  
  
“Father?” asked Edmure groggily.  
  
“Aye, it’s me,” answered Hoster.  
  
His son yawned, clearly half in a daze, then turned over and reached out to hug him. Hoster immediately felt awkward—his girls had always been clingy—Lysa especially—but Edmure? Never.   
  
_Things must truly be bad… too bad Minisa isn’t here to soothe him. How can a father nurse his son? Nursing is the primary occupation of a woman. I can be here for him… but nurse him? No…_  
  
Edmures wheezing breaths becoming more labored as he continued to reach as Hoster deliberated within his own mind. Recognizing that his son was not simply going to give up, Hoster moved to sit on the edge of the bed in order to give his son what he wanted, even if he felt awkward doing it. But as he did so, the child did not seem to care.  
  
“You wanted to see me?” asked Hoster.  
  
“I wanted you…” answered Edmure  
  
“Was the squid annoying you?” queried Hoster with some concern.  
  
“She always does…” conceded his son tiredly.  
  
“Mayhaps I should send the squid away if all she does is bother you,” mumbled Hoster gruffly.  
  
“No!” insisted his son adamantly, his little fists balling up as he said it.  
  
“No?” asked Hoster with bewilderment.  
  
“No,” assured Edmure with a slow and tired nod.  
  
Soon Edmure had fallen back to sleep in his arms, his body becoming limp and pliable as his wheezy little breaths were the only sign of life within him.


	9. Oswell III

**OSWELL**  
  
Nearly a fortnight passed and Oswell began to feel anxious, Varys did not visit his room at the Eight Swords Inn. He was beginning to worry that he might not have enough gold to keep him going in Pentos as he currently was on track for. If things took much longer he would have to start selling his sword and fighting to keep up his ruse—but then he would likely have to leave Pentos, in which case he would’ve failed to complete his assignment altogether.  
  
Having had enough of waiting for the eunuch to come to him, he decided that it was time to seek out the building at the address that Andella had given him. He decided to scope out the place during the day as he still did not trust the streets of Pentos that much after dark when anything might be lurking in its dark narrow and winding streets.  
  
The building wasn’t particularly a grand or noticeable structure. Like everything else in Pentos it was made out of the same dried brick and sat as part of a line of many other houses down yet another narrow winding street that Oswell found tiresome to navigate. It was neither in a well-to-do part of the city nor in the slum, and yet it did not look lived in as its neighboring houses had children half climbing out of windows, laundry hanging from lines between buildings, women sweeping their floors—all of which were signs of life. This house though was oddly dead, and that was the only thing particularly strange he could find about it. Oswell examined it from all sides, and from the outside it appeared to be a normal building. He inquired a few of the younger women discretely under the guise of searching for a long lost relative who used to live in the house, who said they never saw anyone enter or leave the house in all their time there--though he very much doubted the veracity of their words.  
  
After resigning himself to being sent to a distraction of his time, Oswell could not help but notice in the dirt of the street the flickering gleam of something caught his eye. He looked down to find dropped carelessly on the ground were eight coins—all showing their backsides—in a small pile. Not believing his lucky, Oswell scooped up the copper coins and looked around for anyone who might have dropped them—no they were too dirty and worn to have been recently dropped, but then how had these people not noticed these coins?  
  
On his journey back to the Eight Swords he had the funny feeling he was being followed and as he turned a corner down one street he saw in the corner of his eye a streak of violet dart into the shadows from where he had come from. Suspecting who it was immediately, Oswell purposely sought out and turned down one of the fewer wide and open streets—which oddly enough wasn’t fully of many people or places for his violet shadow to hide in. And his plane worked well—as he caught the bastard son of Oberyn Martell trying to cross the wide street from one group of shadows into another. The boy stood there frozen when he realized he’d been caught.  
  
“Care to tell me why you’re my shadow?” asked Oswell, trying to hide his own amusement.  
  
“Mother says keep eye on you,” responded the boy stiffly.  
  
 _Was this address game just a test, to see if I truly did care about finding Varys?_  
  
“Right… why are you truly following me?” asked Oswell.  
  
“Why did you lie to me?” redirected the boy.  
  
“When have I lied to you?” countered Oswell gruffly—he could tolerate a lot of things, but being called a liar was not one of them.  
  
The boy locked eyes with him and said almost as gruffly as a man over fifty, “When I brought you to mother. You said I remind you of woman. That lie.”  
  
“It was not a lie,” he was mincing his words, but thinking on Princess Elia, it was not a lie.  
  
“Don’t lie! You know my father,” stated the boy, tears beginning to form in his eyes.  
  
Oswell weighed his words carefully, on the one hand he could satisfy the desire of Oberyn’s bastard son and then ask the boy once again why he was following him all the while he risk loosing what cooperation he had received from Andella by telling Ober  
  
A few quiet tears stained the boy’s dusty cheek, and Oswell could no longer hold back. _Seven damn the boy…_  
  
“Yes, I know him. But what I told you before was also true, seeing as your father has a sister.”  
  
The bastard boy’s eyes grew wide.  
  
“I have more family?” asked the boy with an eager interest.  
  
“Many more—an uncle, cousins, and several sisters too.”  
  
At this the young boy came running to Oswell and hugged him, making Oswell feel rather uncomfortable about the entire situation.  
  
“How many sisters?” asked the boy, his face buried upon Oswell’s tunic.  
  
Oswell continued, saying, “Four that I know of. One is older than you, but the other three should be about your age or younger. You might have more, but I only know of the four.”  
  
“Why might there be more?” the boy asked with a confused look upon his face.  
  
Figuring he did not have to explain too much to the son of a whore, Oswell simply left it as, “Your sisters all come from different mothers. When your father heard of them, he went and took charge of them.”  
  
The boy stared in no particular direction as he quietly questioned to no one, “Why did father not come for me?”  
  
Oswell carefully weighed his words before answering adding a reassuring hand to the boy’s shoulder as they continued to walk and honestly said, “He doesn’t know about you.”  
  
“Did you tell him in letter?” asked the boy, his eyes rising to meet Oswell’s.  
  
“Aye, I mentioned it,” answered Oswell, though knowing the specific phrasing he’d left up to the boy’s mother, who had vowed to keep her son. He’d tried to keep it vague so that   
  
“Then he should come,” exclaimed the boy excitedly.  
  
“What of your mother?” asked Oswell.  
  
“She come with father to be with other mothers,” answered the boy as if it were the most obvious thing.  
  
Oswell did not have the heart to tell the boy any differently. The two continued on until they came near to the Starry Woman at which point the bastard boy departed for its back door and Oswell continued on his way to the Eight Swords.  
  
When Oswell returned to the Inn he nearly ran into an exiting Lysenia, who dressed with a shawl about her head and an empty basket in the other looked almost like one of the washer women he’d passed in the streets earlier.  
  
“Master Whent! Forgive me, I was just heading out into the market,” apologized Lysenia  
  
“It’s quite near closing time,” commented Oswell, noticing how low the sun was against the horizon.  
  
“I’m in a bit of a rush as you can see—a large party has taken the rest of our rooms and the cook’s run out of supplies to feed them all. Mayhaps next time you’ll tell me one of your Westerosi songs!” said Lysenia as she brushed past him and made her way through the street and towards the nearby market.  
  
There was indeed a large party of people in the common room, busily drinking and laughing away. Not feeling particularly social, Oswell passed the common room and headed up the stairs for his own room. As he entered he saw in the sunset light that filled the room that a hooded Varys awaited him.  
  
 _Thank the Seven…_  
  
“You’re back,” spat Oswell, hoping it would hide his eager glee to see the eunuch Spider.  
  
“You don’t seem all that happy to see me,” commented Varys, taking his hood down to reveal the beard gone and now lavender side whiskers adorned his face.  
  
“And why should I considering you’re having me followed and can get into my room easily enough—” began Oswell.  
  
Varys cut him off, saying, “Have you followed?! Why would I trouble myself when you don’t even bother to hide your copper finding trail? And as for visiting your room, cannot an old friend do so for another? If you truly wanted me gone you would have told your Innkeeper that I should not be permitted entrance.” Here the eunuch paused to chuckle to himself almost gleefully before continuing, “You were hoping that I would return, and so I have. Why did you want me to come back?”  
  
“Seven Hells!” exclaimed Oswell without thinking—though he quickly moved to play that into part of his frustrations with Varys.  
  
“Are you by chance in need of my help?” slyly added the Spider with a knowing gleam in his eye.  
  
“What put that idea into your head?” interrogated Oswell bluntly.  
  
“A desperate man doesn’t cut off lines of help when they’re needed, even if it would be wiser to do so,” elucidated Varys with a shrewd smile.  
  
“I’m not desperate,” retorted Oswell, knowing that he should not immediately give in—if he were playing his role correctly.  
  
Varys laughed before continuing, “No, but you do need something. Otherwise you would have made it abundantly clear beyond your manners that you did not want me here.”  
  
Painting his face with a kind of interest, he asked, “What kind of help are you suggesting?”  
  
Varys reached within his sleeve and pulled out a small bag which jangled as he weighed it in his hands. He said as he did this, “A man who is secure does not go picking up eight dirty little coppers off the ground.”  
  
 _He saw that?! Or did one of his little mice tell him that?_  
  
“What do you want for it?” asked Oswell, knowing that if he stared at the bag he could best play his part.  
  
Varys smiled saying, “Ahh… to the point, that’s one thing I can always trust the Knights of Westeros to be. Such a pity, as it completely does away with all the interesting bits that come before hand, but there are two things you must do to earn this bag. The first is that I have need of a man with skilled with weapons and killing.”  
  
“An assassin?” spat Oswell—even that was going a bit far for him.  
  
“Haven’t you been one already for the King?” asked Varys with a smirk.  
  
Oswell froze. _Does he know?_ No, he could not afford to think of that now.  
  
Varys dismissed it easily, saying, “That’s what all knights are, they just dress you up in honor and duty and to make it seem acceptable.”  
  
“And the second,” pressured Oswell—perceptive that if argued with Varys now, he wouldn’t seem desperate enough—like a man who had truly broken his vows and had nothing left to forsake.  
  
“You know what else I want. I want to know what happened to that babe,” pressured Varys now tossing the bag of coins between his hands so that the jangle of coins became incessant to Oswell’s ears—so that he could not hear anything else, think of nothing else.  
  
“The babe left Starfall for King’s Landing, that’s all I know,” answered Oswell—knowing that the man he was playing would have sold this information by now.  
  
Varys persisted by asking, “With whom?”  
  
“Stark,” answered Oswell, who prayed the Northern lord could keep whatever spies he could out of his castle if for no other reason than Oswell didn’t want the guilt of anyone else’s life on his mind.  
  
Varys then suddenly tossed the bag of coins to Oswell—who caught it despite the little warning he had received.  
  
“Now that wasn’t so difficult. As for your first kill, come to our house tonight—you’ve been there before—and knock eight times on the front door. We’ll discuss it more there where other ears aren’t prying,” spoke Varys as he rose and began to mosey to the door.  
  
Oswell knew a man who was as desperate as he was playing himself would open the bag and examine the coins in front of Varys. So he did.  
  
Oswell scoffed, almost channeling his genuine disgust as he said, “Eight pieces of copper? Have I sold myself so cheaply?”  
  
“At least these coins are clean—unlike the ones you picked up from the dirt. You will receive more upon the completion of your mission,” answered Varys as he pulled his hood up.  
  
“Another pittance? I deserve more than just your coppers!” barked Oswell.  
  
“Then don’t come and see whether you Innkeeper will still let you stay for free and not place you head within a wreath of swords,” retorted Varys before he left and closed the door behind him.  
  
Oswell let the act he had had to keep slip from him as he did the point that Varys had mentioned he allowed once again to come to the forefront of his mind as he pondered whether what he was asked by Oberyn to do was the same as what Varys wanted him to do. Both wanted him to kill men—but one asked for his service and duty while the other…  
  
 _It’s for the safety of the realm, and nothing more. I’ll play along and wait for my moment to strike._  
  
And with his mind settled Oswell prepared himself to see what food he could find in the common room. Hopefully the party that had filled up the Inn hadn’t filled up their bellies just yet.


	10. Lyanna

**LYANNA**  
  
She had nearly forgotten that a year goes by quickly when one does not pay attention. And so when Robert arrived in Winterfell, fresh from Cracklaw Point and boasting of his achievement in settling a dispute, Lyanna had been surprised then felt dread fill her as she recalled that she had agreed to marry Robert. She chided herself for being so foolish as to think that a year's respite could have changed the matter any.  
  
 _I’ve brought enough troubles to my house and the realm… Father, Brandon, Ned, Benjen… all are dead or changed because of me. Thousands are dead… and yet I still would rather pretend that nothing has changed, while hiding here in Winterfell…_  
  
The last few months since Ned's return, the castle had almost seemed like it was returning to the home it had been before she’d been sweetly lulled away by a dragon’s bittersweet song, by becoming the castle it would be for her nephews. Ned and Catelyn had begun to spend more time in one another’s company—getting to know one another at a turtle's pace, too cautious in each tentative step they took with each other. Both Ned and her goodsister were rather too alike in their own ways for their own good, Lyanna thought. Neither had been willing to make the first move—though both wanted the change to their relationship—due to some misconceived notion of honoring the others’ wishes. Truly it had been simply ridiculous the knots these two had been tying each other in. So this had left it up to Lyanna—with some assistance from Benjen, at her goading—to severe the knots or untie them for Ned and Catelyn's own benefit as much as she could, if for no other reason than the for the benefit of her nephews.  
  
Catelyn was better about Jon, she clearly had taken Lyanna’s promptings into consideration and Lyanna felt rather pleased about this. Although Jon was not her son as promised by that vision from the gods, she would make sure that the foundations for as good a childhood as he could expect in Winterfell was available to him. Catelyn still obviously had some issues to work through with Jon—but those would be worked out as the boy grew up, showed himself to be the good sort of boy that Ned and she would raise—after all how could their personalities produce anything else?—and everything would work out for the better, of that Lyanna was positive. And if they didn’t, well she could always work at improving them later on during one of her many planned future trips to Winterfell.  
  
The evening of his arrival, Robert, like on his prior visits to Winterfell, spoke mostly to others: Ned, Ben, even Catelyn; while only obliquely addressing her in public. It was enough to make Lyanna scream. She was to be his wife, had he no consideration for her beyond the fact that he won her?   
  
_Of course not._   
  
Lyanna fumed as she took more wine, thinking of things she would like to tell her future husband—were Ned not present. Robert was in full form this evening in the Great Hall—bragging about his success at Cracklaw Point loudly for everyone to hear.  
  
“The old men of the tribes insisted that they honor their loyalties to House Targaryen first and foremost and demand to be included as part of the Narrow Sea Lands. But then the younger men came in and said that they were First Men first before Targaryen men, so why should they not throw their support behind a King who is reviving the old ways of the First Men? Old Ways, I said. Say that they’re old ways to my friend Lord Eddard Stark and my bride to be, his sister the lovely Lady Lyanna Stark—it would be news to them to hear of old ways when they’re the only ways they know!” blustered Robert, taking a pause to guzzle down some ale instead of his usual wine—which had caused Ned to look at him peculiarly when calling for the servants to wait on the King.  
  
“Anyway, so I asked ‘em what could I do to help them decide—and they said that there should be a fight for it—each side namin’ a champion so to speak and the first to first blood would be the gods’ decision on the matter.”  
  
 _Gods, if he could just chew with his mouth closed. That’s all I want from him at this point..._  
  
“So the elders nominated one of the few young men who sided with them, and I said I’d fight for my own right to the point and we had it out. The only limit they put on it was that we both had to use the same weapon—so being all honorable like Jon raised us to be, I said I’d fight with a sword instead of my hammer. Besides, I thought it might give me more of a challenge. He started out swinging wildly—hoping to catch me of my guard, like this!” and Robert burst into recreating the sword fight using the bone of a chicken leg in place of the sword he was using.   
  
Truth be told it wasn’t a bad story, and despite herself, Lyanna was entertained by it and even enjoyed hearing about it on some level. At one point she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing and encouraging him—but when that failed she had more wine—draining a glass rather quickly. The only ones at the table who did laugh along with him were Ned’s wards, Theon and Raynald, who Catelyn had just finished going over proper table manners with before Robert’s arrival.  
  
 _Poor Catelyn, she'll never hear the end of how the King doesn't care about good table manners from those two._  
  
If only Robert wouldn’t swing his arms wildly about the table causing Ned and Benjen to have to duck—though Ned didn’t seem to bat an eye and could continue to eat while Robert went on, much to Lyanna’s and Catelyn’s amazement. Then there was the near miss of the passing servant, Alyssa, who in jumping out of the way of his swing accidentally dropped the tray of dirty plates they had been carrying away. If only Lyanna could fail to notice these things, then she might not feel so guilty about enjoying the tale.   
  
At the sight of Alyssa’s fumble with the plates, Catelyn relented from her long-held silence and managed to muster a slightly indignant “Your Grace!” when the servant tripped. Robert, apologized and even motioned for one of his guards to come and assist the poor girl, during which she blushed as the awkward guard only too gladly abandon his post for the excuse of interacting with her—managing to bump heads in the process.  
  
Robert finished the story having cornered the rest of the honeyed chicken underneath him as though he were pining the man yet again, “And so at long last I drew first blood on the fighter, and I kept Cracklaw Point in the Crownlands. I told them that I would give them the honor of having as good a First Men look after them, and promised that my queen to be would no doubt do them justice sharing the same blood as they.”  
  
After this the room fell completely silent and nearly all eyes turned to her. It took Lyanna a few moments to comprehend what it was that Robert had admitted to doing. He was giving her lands of her own and people of her own to look after. Half of her wanted to throttle him saying that she could earn her own lands well enough, while the other half, that traitorous half which had been amused by the story to begin with, actually had the gall to suggest  
  
 _He might not be all bad…_  
  
She politely thanked Robert—knowing it was expected of her, while she fumed—half at him and half at herself.  
  
 _He’s trying to buy you!_  
  
 _Queen and Lady of Cracklaw Point… I’d have my own lands_  
  
 _They’d still be part of the Crownlands!_  
  
 _My own income…_  
  
 _Part of which would go to the crown anyway!_  
  
 _I wouldn’t have to depend completely on him…_  
  
 _A pittance!_  
  
To quiet the argument raging within her Lyanna took more wine, but all that did was spur her anger to grow.  
  
When it came time to retreat to her chambers, Robert insisted on escorting her. She took the wine glass with her, wanting to finish it before drifting off to sleep. Her anger took control the further they walked across the courtyard from the Great Hall to the Great Keep.  
  
 _Here he is playing at being the gentleman… but if I were a serving girl or a handmaiden, he’d already have me against a wall and be pushing my dress up. I’ll try him…_  
  
“Are you afraid of me?” asked Lyanna, trying to find something that would disarm him, but regretting her choice of words the instant  
  
Robert’s face was painted with clear confusion, as he exclaimed, “Afraid of you?!”   
  
She pushed on with what she had said, “Aye… all through dinner you did not speak with me once—despite being seated across from me.”  
  
At the mention of this, Robert clearly looked shamefaced, and lowered his head as he stuttered, “I—well, I—”  
  
She continued on, closing the gap between them, carelessly dropping the nearly empty glass from her hand as she did so. “I am not some statue to be looked at from afar and admired… I am a woman grown, made of flesh and blood, and filled with as many desires as any man has within him.” At this point she surprised him by pressing him up against a wall—beginning to run her hands over his body in just such a way to push him over the edge—though she did like the feel of some of those muscles—yes, that would prove her point. And when he responded she would have her proof that yes, she was like any other whore to him, and then she could let him have it!  
  
She no longer cared what she was saying, all that mattered was prompting a response from the otherwise surprised stag, “I am a Stark… a she-wolf… and the wolf’s blood runs strong in me… like it did in Brandon. Ned and Benjen are tame lap dogs compared to me. While I take what I want!”  
  
At this she initiated a kiss, half biting as she did so—if shock had kept him from responding before, this would surely push him over the edge. She felt him harden beneath her and she knew she was close to getting what she wanted. He moved his hands to her shoulders—yes he’d then try to wrap his arms around her—but then instead he pushed her off of him, causing her to fall rather ungracefully to the ground. He then swore and punched the wall with his left hand beside him, hurting his hand in the process.  
  
“What was that for?!” growled Lyanna, curious and upset about both the push and the punch.  
  
“You’re drunk… and I couldn’t… control myself… for much longer,” responded Robert as he took a few deep breaths to recover from the lack of air she’d let him have.  
  
 _I almost had him!_  
  
She began to get up to finish what she had started—to win and be right about him.  
  
“No! You wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t had so much wine,” retorted Robert, moving away from the wall and out of her immediate reach—almost bounding away like a frightened deer.  
  
 _How is he so sober? He’s drunk nearly as much as me._  
  
 _He drank watered ale…_  
  
Collecting himself, he spoke with a rather regal tone she’d not heard him use before, “There are some matters I need to speak with you before this can go any further. But if we continue any further I won’t be able to say what I need to tell you before we go any further. And that’s why I am leaving…”  
  
“I was right!” she called after his retreating form, grasping at straws to pull some kind of victory from this mess.  
  
Robert turned around and met her eyes.  
  
“You are afraid of me!” spat Lyanna, but she did not get the response she wanted from him—him charging back to prove he wasn’t. Instead he clenched his fists and stormed off, leaving her quite angry, tired, and even a little aroused as she curled on the ground. Her eyelids were heavy and she needed to sleep, and so she let herself drift off.  
  
The next thing she knew she was being picked up by two arms. She squirmed in their grasp until she opened her eyes and saw that the mystery person was Ned.   
  
“Ned…” she said with much relief.  
  
She half heard him say, “Robert said you’d be here…”  
  
At first she wanted to fight out of his grasp but then realized she didn’t really want to either, as this was the closest interaction they had had since he’d returned to Winterfell to what they had had before… before everything had changed. She relaxed into his grasp, clumsily wrapping her arms around his neck, like she used to when he had carried her to bed before he had gone to foster at the Eyrie. It seemed rather odd to be doing this at seven and ten, rather than it had at four, but Lyanna was too drunk to really care anymore. As they came to the door of the Great Keep, her goodsister stood waiting, holding the door open for them. Hazily she greeted Catelyn, who good-naturedly returned the sentiment as she closed the door behind them.  
  
Ned brought her to her chambers and laid her out upon the bed, leaving it to her and the servants to fight with her clothes later. He wished her a good night, and to Lyanna’s surprise Catelyn stayed as Ned left, assisting her with getting out of her dress and into a shift.  
  
“Alla—” began Lyanna.  
  
Catelyn cut her off, saying, “I sent her to bed along with the rest of the servants. They’ve had enough excitement for one night and they deserved whatever sleep they can get after cleaning up the mess his grace left the Great Hall in.”  
  
“Thank you,” she mumbled as she held up her hands for Catelyn to pull the shift over her and her smallclothes.  
  
Catelyn simply replied, “Get some rest. I’ll have Maester Luwin bring you something for your headache in the morning.”  
  
Lyanna grunted as she curled back up upon her bed—not even bothering to get beneath her furs and closed her eyes.  
  
It was nearly the afternoon when she did awake and feel strong enough to move without feeling dizzy. Upon a table in the room stood a small glass of greenish liquid Lyanna vaguely recalled would help with the disorienting headache she was having from the wine.  
  
After drinking all of the nasty substance she washed her face with the pitcher of water, soap, sponge, and basin that were next to the glass. Feeling slightly refreshed, she dressed into a simple loose fitting dress and leggings. The headache had only retreated to the center of her head, feeling like it was draining from her like water from a leaky glass, leaving behind a numbness that only a good night’s rest would cure.  
  
As she did all this, memories of her actions from the night previous returned to her, and Lyanna felt both embarrassed, shameful, and angry—all with herself.  
  
I should never have drunk so much!  
  
Feeling neither hungry nor particularly wishing to speak with anyone, Lyanna sought refuge in the only place in the castle where she knew she could be alone without actually being alone—the nursery. Thankfully all the babes were asleep—except Den who had climbed out of the shared crib and was playing with a few blocks that had been left on the floor in case he did climb out. Sweet little Jeyne was missing from the nursery at the moment—no doubt off with Wylla, the Dornish wetnurse, who had elected to stay when the Westerlands woman had departed.  
  
That was an issue that Old Nan and her goodsister had been having with the troublesome two nameday old war orphan. He had taken to climbing out of the crib whenever he felt like it—and was even going so far as to teach Jon how to do so—thankfully he was too young to imitate just yet, or at least seemed unwilling to leave the crib. Robb meanwhile was just a few months shy of celebrating his first nameday and seemed rather eager to catch up with all the achievements of his cribmates, pushing himself to not only roll over, and sit up, but also crawl at an earlier age than either Den or Jon had felt inclined to do. It was almost as if he were making up for lost time as much as he could.  
  
Currently Robb was sleeping, and Jon was sitting in the crib amusing himself with a straw filled fur wolf Catelyn had made for Robb which had promptly become the shared property of the three boys to her chagrin. He smiled when he saw her and Lyanna carefully picked him up and moved to a chair so that she could hold him without fear of possibly dropping him. He had gotten heavy in the last year… and soon she’d leave and he’d be even more grown the next time she saw him…  
  
It was in this manner that she was discovered by Robert—of all people.  
  
He said nothing, simply looking at her. She felt herself blush upon sight of him—the faint memory of the previous night’s biting kiss playing once again through her mind.  
  
“Your grace,” she mumbled as she averted her eyes.  
  
“Lyanna… I… I came to…” but he stopped as his eyes caught sight with Den, who had lost interest in him a while before when he had done nothing but stand in the doorway.   
  
He seemed frozen in this stare for a moment before Lyanna asked “Your grace?” and broke him of whatever spell had come across him.  
  
Robert’s eyes “I wanted to speak with you… Ned said you might be here if you were not in your chambers… and this must be my namesake?” said Robert as he tried to adopt an easier countenance than he had entered the room with.  
  
“This is Jon."  
  
“The bastard? Gods… if he didn’t look so like Ned I’d still only half believe it…”  
  
Something within Lyanna wanted to snap at Robert for saying that—but Lyanna pushed that aside—she’d had enough of letting her anger rule her for a little while.  
  
“You and his wife must be angry with him.”  
  
“What for?” asked Lyanna, confused as to why she would be angry with anything her nephew had done.  
  
Robert explained, “For having him here in Winterfell.”  
  
An uneasy moment passed until Lyanna's still wine-addled head comprehended that he had meant she should be angry with Ned for forcing Jon upon Winterfell.  
  
“Why would I be angry for having him here in Winterfell?” asked Lyanna with some indignity.  
  
“You mean to say that you approve of—” began Robert.  
  
Lyanna cut him off, saying, “Of course I approve of my brother taking proper care of his son.”  
  
“Seven Hells!” exclaimed Robert, waking Robb who whined discontentedly.  
  
“Shh, you’ll wake Robb!” hushed Lyanna as she rose and put the now squirming and whining Jon back in the crib with his brother—the two calming down once each were aware of each other’s presence in the crib.  
  
Robert lowered his voice to a deep rumble, “Mya can’t stay in the Red Keep because you disapprove and yet you say you’re fine with your nephew living under the same roof as his siblings. What is any different about Mya than Jon?”  
  
She asked, “What are you going on about?”  
  
Robert’s voice rose to a near roar as he exclaimed, “My daughter! I arranged for her to have a house of her own in King’s Landing, just like you’d requested. I got her a Septa and a few servants to look after and teach her—”  
  
“If you’re going to start bellowing we can’t stay here!” interrupted Lyanna as she nudged him out into the corridor and away from the complaining pair of brothers in the crib.  
  
Once they were out in the corridor and far enough down from the nursery, she stopped nudging him forward and said, “Now speak your mind.”  
  
Robert wasted no time, demanding, “What is so different about Jon that he’s permitted to live with his father in your eyes, but my daughter can’t live with me?”  
  
“She’s a royal bastard… her children—” started Lyanna.  
  
Robert interrupted with, “And your nephew’s a lordly bastard whose children could threaten his brother’s children. I fail to see the difference ‘tween ‘em. Now, if I had sired her while married to you, I could understand why—”  
  
“You were betrothed to me!” snapped Lyanna.  
  
He looked at her oddly as he said, “When I got her? No. I got her before I spoke with your father about any sort of betrothal.”  
  
“Why do you want her at the Red Keep?” asked Lyanna with some frustration.  
  
“Why do you not want her there? All I’m asking for is to have my girl receive the same treatment from you, as you give your nephew!”  
  
“It’s different—” began Lyanna  
  
“Seven hells it is! I’ve been good, Lyanna. Very good—well, as good as I can be. I’ve tried to live up to everything you asked of me a year ago, and in nearly all of them I’ve succeeded. I was going to come here and admit to you where I... I messed up and beg for your understanding if not your forgiveness, but apparently you hold some things of more value than others.”  
  
“You what?” asked Lyanna, her head still too dulled to grasp everything immediately..  
  
“Again, I ask you, what is so different about my daughter and your nephew?”  
  
 _He has a point…_  
  
 _Jon is different!_  
  
 _Is he?_  
  
 _He is the son the gods promised me!_  
  
 _Did they promise you a son, or did you want your nephew to be your son?_  
  
 _He should have been mine!_  
  
 _He is Ned’s. He will never be mine…_  
  
“Well?” asked Robert.  
  
“Nothing… there’s nothing different between them… take her to the Red Keep if you so wish it.”  
  
He nodded his head to acknowledge her admission, but Lyanna felt like crying. It felt like Starfall all over again… waking up to find her babe dead… never even having the opportunity to know her. She hadn’t cried for her then—not really. There’ been Jon and Den to look after. But now she felt like she had to. And with as much composure as she could hold she excused herself from his settling presence, and retreated to her own chambers—locking the door and burying herself in her furs—only then allowing herself to cry as she recalled her own cold babe in her arms.  
  
It wasn’t long before she heard knocking on the door. She yelled for whoever it was to go away. All she wanted now was to hold a babe of her own, saving that she would lock out the rest of the world.  
  
When she felt something cold touch her shoulder she almost screamed and jumped out from under her furs.  
  
“It’s only me, mother,” said a voice she recalled having heard before in what felt like a dream.  
  
Nervous at what she might see she pulled down the furs from over her head and saw sitting on the edge of the bed the son she had seen in her drug-induced dream in Starfall's birthing chambers.  
  
“I’m asleep,” she muttered.  
  
“Partly. You’re in that place between sleeping and waking,” answered the shade who claimed to be her future son. He had Robert’s hair and eyes—there was no denying his paternity—but he had her long face, her father’s straight nose, Brandon’s bulky build, Benjen’s smile, and a beard just like Ned’s. He may have Baratheon coloring, but this son had far more of the North in him than the South—especially in the grey robe which he wore. From what Lya could guess, he looked to be about Brandon’s age.  
  
“Edrick?” tested Lyanna, partly recalling the name the shade of her grandmother had used.  
  
He smiled, saying, “Aye…”  
  
“Why are you here? There’s no incense…” she noted.  
  
“No, but you needed me,” answered the shade as he placed his hand atop of hers, the touch sending a cold shiver up her arm.  
  
“Can I ask you something?” questioned Lyanna.  
  
“Aye, but I can’t say much about what’s to come,” replied Edrick.  
  
“Is your sister with you?”  
  
“Which one?” retorted Edrick with a laugh—a laugh which sounded a bit too much like Robert.  
  
“Your eldest.”  
  
“Look in your arms,” was his vague reply, and Lyanna did to see the babe that she had held in Starfall there in her grasp. Unlike Edrick, she did not feel cold to the touch. Instead she felt warm. Her newborn babe—disfigured as she had been—gurgled like Jon and Robb did, and looked up at her with one grey eye and one violet eye.  
  
“I never got the chance to be your mother properly…”  
  
Her dead daughter babbled in response—as though she had understood it all. Lyanna kissed her daughter on her forehead and then handed her to Edrick who smiled sadly at her before disappearing from the room.  
  
Lyanna then jumped at the sound of knocking and immediately found herself beneath her furs once again.  
  
It had been a dream… all of it…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally two chapters, but I ended up merging them together to try and get time moving faster between chapters. Because time really needs to be picking up in this story.


	11. Arthur

**ARTHUR**  
  
In time Arthur had found his place at Clegane’s Keep as a kind of near uncle figure to his young would-be squire, Sandor, and his sister, Calena. He was given a small, but respectable room in the Keep for his own use.  
  
After the first week, Sandor had asked why Arthur had stayed with him instead of staying with Lord Stark.  
  
“Because I never start something I don’t intend on finishing,” replied Arthur.  
  
Sandor had simply nodded at this, accepting that as one answer.  
  
“And besides, when you’ve finished your training, Lord Stark invited us both to Winterfell so you can display what skill you have learned,” added Arthur.  
  
“Why would he care?” asked the scared Clegane.  
  
“For some reason he took an interest in you boy, be glad that someone has,”   
  
“Everytime someone took an interest in my family, it’s always turned out for the worse,” muttered Sandor.  
  
Arthur left his would-be squire with his own thoughts to himself.  
  
During the first few months or so Arthur found himself mostly employed along with Sandor in helping to repair the damage left to the Keep and surrounding land left by the Ironborn. At his insistence Arthur persuaded the two Cleganes to leave some of the embankments for their own defenses and even helped add to them, turning them into an earthen palisade for the Keep, behind which he helped build a simple wooden wall around the Keep and few collected buildings like the stable, kitchen, and a shed that served as a makeshift armory.   
  
“You’re turning our keep into a ruddy castle,” muttered Sandor darkly one afternoon while they assisted what few male servants they had in building up the palisade.  
  
“Aye, but if your keep had only had the basic defenses of a castle, you wouldn’t have fallen to easily to the Ironborn,” countered Arthur, and he knew that that that would keep his young would-be squire quiet on the matter.   
  
When he wasn’t working on his proposed project, he passed his days training Sandor and assisting Calena in tasks which she either had trouble accomplishing, like reaching something placed on the back of a high shelf, or in guarding her as she journeyed about the valley and forest to meet with farmers or trappers under their domain. At first she’d been nervous about him—always looking to see if his sword were still sheathed—but after Arthur scared off a trapper who had tried to use the fact she was no longer a maid as reason enough to have his way with her, she no longer was quite so jumpy about him. Eventually both Cleganes grew accustomed to his presence and Arthur found some semblance of quiet respite in the Westerlands that he had been missing for a long long time.  
  
Calena Clegane shared the brown eyes and brown hair of her brothers, not to mention the large family hooked nose, though it somehow seemed to “fit” on her face whereas it looked out of place on both her giant brother and little brother, and a hardy disposition. She dressed in darker yellows than her younger brother did, and while knowing how to sew any kind of cloth together expertly, she had yet to learn a lady’s skill at embroidery, as the few dogs she had embroidered on either her or Sandor’s clothes were uneven and lumpy, but Sandor never seemed to complain. She generally managed to have the Keep clean and presentable at all times. She threw herself into the position as Lady of Clegane’s Keep, personally seeing to the few smallfolk who lived in the little valley her brother was in charge of, and generally being more involved than Arthur recalled his father or his brother ever being as lords themselves. But then again as Lord of Starfall, his relations had minor Knightly houses of the level of the Cleganes to actually interact with the smallfolk for them. Mayhaps this was not so uncommon amongst the Kinghtly Houses.  
  
To Sandor’s ire Calena had kept the babe forced upon her by one of the Greyjoy brothers, and kept herself busy managing the valley and woods up until her last week of pregnancy, during which she retired to her bed utterly exhausted. She gave birth to a boy who looked every bit like his uncle Sandor, except for the Greyjoy black hair and a smaller and straighter nose than either his mother or his uncle possessed. Calena named the boy Conhur, after her father, and despite a general sour disposition the boy seemed to be a normal babe, as far as Arthur could tell. But to hear his would-be squire speak, one would have been sure that Conhur Hill was a demon from one of the Seven Hells, come to personally torment and plague his family.   
  
To say that Sandor did not look at his nephew with the kindness an uncle should have, would be understating the dark loathing Sandor had for the child. For Calena’s sake Sandor said nothing in front of her, but when she was out of earshot, or training in the rough space that had turned into a courtyard between the walls of the keep and the wooden walls they’d helped erect, Arthur heard everything as they practiced, until one day he grew tired of listening.  
  
“The bastard better not grow up to be anything like his father,” snapped Sandor darkly after a long rant about how irritating it was to constantly hear the boy wailing through the night.  
  
“He’s a babe who will know next to nothing of his sire, except what your sister tells him. If she raises him that way," retorted Arthur as he met his would-be squire's blow.  
  
“It isn’t about how Calena raises him. He’s got Ironborn blood in him. He’ll always be trouble,” spat Sandor.  
  
“I wonder how many people looked at your face and said the same thing,” sniped Arthur, growing tired of hearing his would-be squire's ire.  
  
This of course had provoked his would-be squire’s anger, causing the boy to once again forget some of his lessons, though less than when he’d taken to his rages before, Arthur took note of, and to fight near wildly. Sandor was no longer quite so short as he had been the year prior, having grown almost a head taller and from Arthur’s training gained a respectable amount of muscle for his age. As such he was much more capable than he had been on Bear Island, though still less of a match for Arthur—though he knew one day that that would not be the case.   
  
After knocking Sandor onto the flat of his back yet again, Arthur reached down to help his would-be squire back to his feet, scolding, “Don’t judge the boy until you know him, lest you have others judge you likewise.”  
  
Sandor’s eyes narrowed. The boy hated being reminded of his scare, of that Arthur knew full well, but there was little else he could say to get through to his head at the moment. A long silence passed between them, Sandor staying seated upon the ground refusing to get up, and Arthur eventually ceasing his offer to lend him a hand.  
  
“It’s not fair,” croaked his would-be squire as Arthur was about to leave.  
  
“And that surprises you?” asked Arthur as he turned around.  
  
But his would-be squire continued, yelling through tears of rage as though he had not heard him, “They’re dead! They hurt my sister… leave her with child… and I can’t do anything about it!”  
  
Arthur felt his own feelings flare up as he recalled what he felt when he’d learned Stark had left Ashara with a child that she had likewise chose to keep, though the situations were slightly different as Ashara had not been raped. For a brief moment, Arthur imagined what he would have done if Ashara had told him that she had been raped. His sword fight with Stark played through his mind once again only this time he imagined himself winning and brutalizing the body until it was unrecognizable.  
  
 _Seven Hells…_  
  
Arthur placed a hand on his squire’s heaving shoulder, “Be angry with them. It’s your right to be, but do not be angry with your nephew. As much as he has their blood, he has yours and your sister’s, bastard though he may be he is still your blood.”  
  
Sandor looked up at Arthur and nodded, this time taking hold of his arm by his surprise to help himself up before walking off. Arthur let his would-be squire go, knowing it probably for the best to let him cool off on his own.  
  
Later that night, Arthur was interrupted from his prayers by a knock on his door. To his surprise, after throwing on a robe to cover himself with—having nothing but his small clothes on underneath—he found Calena Clegane at his door with a candle. He had expected a servant ready to tell him that Sandor hadn’t returned yet from wherever he had stalked off to brood that afternoon,   
  
“Lady Clegane,” said Arthur in a half startled voice.  
  
“Good evening Master Dayne,” said Calena sagely. She always called him by his title, at first referring to him as Ser until he had corrected her as to being stripped of his title.  
  
“Is your brother—” began Arthur.  
  
“He’s returned… but I did not come here to say that,” finished Calena.  
  
“Would you like to come inside and take a seat?” offered Arthur, as he opened his door slightly.  
  
Calena shook her head and rather quickly said, “No, I’ll be quick and leave you to your sleep. I wanted to thank you, Master Dayne.”  
  
Arthur felt confused as he asked, “Thank me?”  
  
“For what you said to Sandor. Whatever it was, thank you,” she said and then curtsied and turned to leave.  
  
“What for, my lady?” asked Arthur after her.  
  
“I was looking in on Conhur before retiring to bed, and Sandor was in there and not glaring at him for once,” explained Calena as she turned back around to face him.  
  
“He is his uncle, he just needed to be reminded of that,” explained Arthur.  
  
“Did he?” commented Calena with a bit of suspicion.  
  
“Uncles mayhaps be a bit stubborn, but we don’t hold grudges for forever.”  
  
“So you are an uncle yourself?” asked Calena.  
  
“Aye, I am,” not knowing where she was taking the conversation.  
  
Apparently she didn’t either, simply saying, “Again, I thank you Master Dayne, for all your help, not just with Sandor but… everything.”  
  
At this point the lady nodded her head towards him and continued on up the stairs, leaving Arthur to return to his room. He found it hard to return to prayer after that awkward conversation, and so he retired for a disquieting night’s rest.


	12. Denys II

**DENYS**  
  
After Grand Maester Gormon had given his consent that Lysa was healed enough to travel Denys was eager to leave King’s Landing behind and return to the windswept lands of the Vale. There was just something comforting in the thought of returning home, of seeing to his lands, and visiting the graves of Annalys and Jasper—most of all he wished to do this, if only to bring some sense of closure to it all.  
  
However before they could travel, they had to wait for his goodfather’s return from the Riverlands, who had left upon hearing word that Edmure had grown quite sick. Denys shared this news with Lysa who paled slightly at it while saying nothing in response—though Denys did observe she visited the Red Keep’s Sept more frequently from that day forward. Finally after nearly a second moon’s turn of delaying, Hoster Tully returned to King’s Landing to take up his position as Hand of the King, which Denys had been more or less filling in for him during his absence and Robert’s having left the capital to do whatever it was needed addressing on Cracklaw Point.   
  
Thankfully Hoster had arrived just in time before Denys was driven made by acting as Hand in his goodfather's stead. He was tired of hearing the arguments from the Queen Dowager on which title her new husband Ser Bonifer Hasty should be addressed by. The woman may be approaching forty, but she still quickly was proving to have the vitality of a woman half her age with each passing day. He was pulling his hair out over seeing that the damage to Maegar’s Holdfast was being repaired properly without the laborers trying to cheat the crown with shoddy construction—for the amount of gold they were laying out to repair this they better be receiving top quality labor. He grew annoyed at hearing of the increase of pirate raids in ships traveling through the Stepstones, and the wild goose chases captains undertook trying to find their hidden coves. And he was irritated for having to turn the Lannister family away from the capital with the apologies that his grace was currently in Cracklaw Point—and when Lord Stafford Lannister of Maunhill asked if his niece might be tentatively betrothed to Lord Stannis per the King’s permission, Denys had the unfortunate duty to delay such matters until the King’s return—which never happened seeing as Robert went North—far too eager to see his betrothed and escort her entourage—instead of returning to the capital like he should have. So when his goodfather returned, Denys was quite glad to give him back the duty of Hand—a position he would never want to take up in all his life.  
  
“How fares Edmure?” asked Denys not long after Hoster’s arrival and return to the Tower of the Hand.  
  
“He will recover, bless the Seven. My boy may be a foolish fish but he is _my_ foolish fish.”  
  
Denys nodded, almost smiling as he did so, relieved that neither Lysa nor Hoster would have to suffer yet another tragedy in the family.   
  
It was then that Hoster said, “Tell Lysa for me that she has an Aunt.”  
  
Denys stared at his goodfather in confusion for a moment before saying, “You must be japing—”  
  
“It is no jape. It was a hasty courtship, but then when Brynden put his mind to something he does it straight away with very little delay. He wanted to be a knight before he was a man grown—father told him it was near impossible, but Brynden had his own way in the end,” reminisced Hoster fondly.  
  
“Who did he marry?” asked Denys curious as to the identity of the lady who finally convinced the Blackfish to swim through the smoother streams of life.  
  
Hoster snorted before announcing, “Lady Jeyne Darry. Gods, he chose a better political match than I would have hoped. What with her great-uncle Ser Willam having distinguished himself in the Rebellion as one of the heroic saviors of the Queen Dowager and the Princesses from Aerys’ wildfire. That’ll help heal the breech between the loyalist houses and ours. I should have let him choose his own wife years ago… though it does make him brother-in-law to Lord Walder’s tenth or eleventh son now, but I guess that cannot be helped seeing as he’s married his weasley children to half the houses of Westeros.”  
  
Lysa received the news of having a new Aunt rather dispassionately until she realized that her new aunt was only two years her senior in namedays. At which point Lysa hastily changed the subject to anything else but discussing her uncle’s new bride.  
  
The following morning they left the capital on a ship bound for Gulltown. They shared a cabin along the trip, which felt comfortable and natural to them both—as he had stayed with her in her chambers each night since her recovery. He found that he simply slept better holding her in his arms—and she did as well. The comfort of each other’s presence at night had helped him through his brief stint as acting Hand and her through the dark days after having lost the child. But it was to Denys’ great surprise that on the ship Lysa asked if they could mayhaps attempt at repopulating the name of Arryn as he had so put it. Thus amongst the rocking of the waves and the ship they did tentatively but sweetly reaffirm the intimacy of the physical nature of their relationship.  
  
They landed in Gulltown with little trouble and began the journey to the Eyrie, by way of Ironoaks where Denys planned to visit the graves of Annalys and Jasper, along with bringing his goodsisters by Annalys to the Eyrie. They were met by Lady Anya Waynwood—his goodaunt—who had taken control of Ironoaks in the interim. She greeted them with the utmost dignity and honor due his position as Lord Paramount of the Vale, and likewise had both Lorra and Elyssa ready and presentable to meet them. Elyssa practically ran up to greet him—just as she had been eager to do all those years ago when he had arrived to marry Annalys. Although now the three and ten nameday old was nearly a woman grown in comparison to the little girl who had rushed up so eager to meet her soon to be goodbrother.  
  
Elyssa was the energetic one, as Annalys had told him, always eager to be out of the castle by a stream or climbing amongst the cliffs and trees, going for long hikes to destinations unknown, tearing her dresses, and dirtying her underdress. She was not a girl to be kept indoors and thrived amongst the harsh winds that plagued the Vale. Often her boots were caked in mud at the end of the day, her long straight light brown hair left down and unadorned as a Northwoman’s and when it was adorned with something it was typically wildflowers that she had woven into the shape of a crown. The smiling young beauty before him was still very much that girl Denys was glad to see and with all the rambunctious sweetness of her age after hugging Denys she then gave a half-decent curtsey and presented Lysa with a bouquet of wildflowers and her heartfelt apologies at their recent loss. The action had brought the first smile Denys had seen from his wife outside of his private company on the ship.  
  
Lorra took after her mother Alys—with her light blonde hair and piercing blue eyes and was every bit the image of what an Arryn should be—stern, hard, solid as the mountain the falcon clung to itself. She had been hardened by the losses and challenges of her early years that Elyssa had little memory of beyond the death of their father in the Rebellion. She had seen their only brother, Jasper, struck dead by a horse’s well-placed kick to his head, had watched as her closest sister Jeyne and younger sister Rowena had slowly withered away of disease as children, and bore witness to the living disgrace her second closest sister, Carys, had to endure after she had been seduced by a sellsword and run away with him to bear his bastard son, only to be left by him. She had watched as her mother had weakened herself bearing daughter after daughter in attempts to replace the son that she had lost, until at last she had died not too long after Elyssa had been born—her body exhausted from having given birth to nine children. And last but not least she had been here to nurse and help Annalys and his Jasper through their final days, watching the pox take them. Denys did not begrudge Lorra her hard demeanor, life had not been kind to her, forging her spirit into a firm rod of wraught iron.  
  
Lorra did not approach Denys and Lysa, but instead waited until after they had met with her aunt before giving a graceful but solid curtsey, keeping her face neutral when greeting them both. It wasn’t until later that she made her feelings towards them both abundantly clear.  
  
Before settling in, Denys made a point of traveling to the catacombs to pay his respect to Annalys and Jasper. Signs of decay had already set in beneath their burial shrouds—almost allowing Denys to entertain the notion that they weren’t dead, but pulling back the shrouds had only confirmed the opposite, leaving Denys to let out a stream of tears he had not known to have entered carrying. He sat down at the foot of the slab that Annalys had been laid out upon and let his tears come pouring down. In this moment he did not feel like an Arryn, but instead the lonely little boy that his cousin Jon had taken in after his father had practically abandoned him.  
  
Much to his surprise, not long afterwards he heard Lysa’s voice call out amongst the hazy darkness of the tombs. She had offered to wait outside to allow him his privacy. But she must have heard him crying for she now had entered the catacombs and was making her way to him. He had tried to wipe away the tears, to regain control of himself, but he found himself unable to do so in time for when Lysa arrived. She was quiet and respectful amongst the dead bodies of Annalys and Jasper, paying dutiful respect to them before joining him upon the ground and her companionship for the while.  
  
That evening, by candlelight, Denys had found an oddly comfortable chair in the Great Hall of Ironoaks, that he had brought before a hearth, not feeling inclined to wander the castle alone—lest he should find Annalys’ ghost amongst them. Instead he stared idly into the flames of the hearth, watching them shift through many shapes like the clouds in the sky. At one point he thought he saw a pair of eyes staring at him through the flames, but Denys dismissed this soon as him being too tired and his mind playing tricks on him. All around shields of knightly houses sworn to House Waynwood hung from the walls between torches.   
  
The nearby table—cleared from their evening meal by the servants an hour or two past—served as a spot for Lysa, Lorra, and Elyssa to sit on a bench nearby sewing shirts from the poorman’s charity basket. Lorra took very seriously her duties as a noblewoman for looking, and despite her stern demeanor was a very charitable soul. As such she had long since organized for excess materials leftover from the clothes they’d made to be turned into shirts for the smallfolk. At the end of a harvest she had asked her father if the poorest smallfolk could glean their fields for whatever might be left behind, and she had made a point of visiting the sick and wounded smallfolk in the village if able. This evening Lorra was insistent upon finishing the last of the shirts she had begun making so that when they left for the Eyrie in a day or two’s time they would not be left half done and undistributed. Lysa had volunteered to assist, while Elyssa had been wrangled from taking a nighttime stroll through the courtyard to gaze at the constellations. After this insistence, Lorra oddly became rather quiet as she let Lysa and Elyssa chatter away about everything and nothing for the majority of the evening.  
  
After shaking himself from his spellbound gaze into the fire, Denys once again listened in to their conversation.  
  
“Surely at your age you must have a sweetheart,” insisted Lysa.  
  
“Well… aye, I do,” admitted Elyssa bashfully.  
  
“Oh, tell me his name,” urged Lysa as though she were her sister and confidant.  
  
“I wouldn’t want to say—” began Elyssa hesitantly.  
  
“Don’t think I don’t already know you sneak off into the godswood with Ser Errold Hardyng, Elyssa—you’re hardly discrete,” interrupted Lorra.  
  
“Who is Ser Errold Hardyng?” asked Lysa.  
  
“He’s a knight sworn to Aunt Anya—he just earned his knighthood in the Rebellion, at the Kingswood. Denys knighted him,” said Elyssa pointedly.  
  
At the sound of his name, Denys turned around in the chair to face the three ladies, but said nothing, merely watching them as they sewed the shirts’ dappled patches of checkered cloth together to make more fabric out of less. He did not feel like joining their conversation, merely contenting himself to listen.  
  
“He said when I’m old enough, he’ll marry me,” admitted Elyssa conspiratorially in a low whisper not meant for his ears—but if she truly did wish to marry this Hardyng man, and he was a decent man of good and honorable standing, Denys felt at ease enough to let her have her sweetheart.  
  
“Oh don’t be so foolish, Elyssa!” insisted Lorra  
  
“How am I being foolish?!” snapped Elyssa in return.  
  
“He’s promised that to half the girls in the Vale,” countered Lorra.  
  
“He has not!”  
  
“Then how come he promised the same of me two years ago? Hm?” asked   
  
“He… what?”  
  
“Oh you sweet sweet summer girl, how little of the world do you yet know,” tutted Lorra.  
  
“You’re lying. Errold would never have considered you!”  
  
Lysa now seemed completely uncomfortable as the two sisters descended into an argument.  
  
Lorra continued saying, “Men like Errold trade their feelings very easily. The affection of men is as changeable as the wind.”  
  
“How can—” began Elyssa  
  
But Lysa cut her off saying, “I will grant that with some men you speak truly, but like with women, there are some who are more affectionate than others,” said Lysa sneaking not so subtle glances in his direction. Denys felt a lump form in his throat which made the very idea of speaking seem impossible at that moment.  
  
Lorra however did not seem impressed with this idea, saying, “While they are with you, men can be extremely affectionate I suppose, but there is always something to take them out into the world, where they soon forget about us. Men have their lordships, their swords, their hunts, and their wars. Meanwhile we women manage our castles, sew for the poor, inspect the crops, tend to the sick smallfolk, raise our children, and when our hours are not spent as such we sit and wait for our man’s return—sometimes to little avail. All some of us have to keep us waking up each morning is the promise of our man’s return. And how do they repay us for our devotion? They bring home their bastards and ask us to raise the cuckoos amongst our warbler chicks, and some of the very loathsome have the gall to drag the mistresses they take while away and bring them home to our nests.”  
  
It was this last sentence that Lorra said while casting a few glances directly at himself, Denys noted. Lysa’s eyes narrowed at Lorra.  
  
And before Denys could say anything in response, Elyssa broke in saying, “You’re wrong about Errold! Completely wrong!”  
  
The morning they were to set off for the Eyrie, Denys pulled Lorra aside.  
  
“Lorra, I would speak with you.”  
  
She rolled her eyes and turned to leave, saying, “Can it not wait for later my _good brother_? I seem to have remembered I forgot to pack my—”  
  
“I will not have you insulting Lysa,” he said firmly.  
  
“When did I insult the _honorable_ Lady Arryn?” asked Lorra pointedly.  
  
“Let us be frank with one another,” he offered.  
  
“You would wish I say my mind then?” asked Lorra, but before he had a chance to answer, she continued, saying, “Annalys should never have married you. You are no true Arryn. You are a weak, spineless, simpering little puppy—so starved for affection you hardly waited for my sister and her son to be buried before you married your Tully whore!”  
  
“Say what you like about me, but you will not speak of Lady Arryn with such disrespect!” snapped Denys.  
  
“Would that you had cared as much for Annalys’ honor!” spat Lorra.  
  
He almost felt like hitting “How dare you!”  
  
“On her deathbed all she could speak about was how it would be so lovely when you came home again. She died waiting for you, loving you in her own foolish way. And what did you do as soon as you heard she was dead? But collect your cousin's droppings."  
  
“The King commanded—” he began.  
  
“I’ll have none of your excuses! Annalys might have accepted them, but I am not her. You should have had the decency to have waited. Do you even grieve for her?”  
  
Denys felt a rage unlike anything he had ever felt build up within him and nearly explode as he shouted, “You know nothing, absolutely nothing of how I feel! When I heard they had died I wanted to throw myself into the thickest of the battle so that I might join them.”  
  
“What stopped you?” spat Lorra.  
  
“Jon Arryn, he insisted on taking my place in the battle,” explained Denys.  
  
She condescendingly retorted, “How convenient for you! To have the first husband’s permission. Seems like a fair trade then, his life for his wife.”  
  
After saying this, she turned once again to leave.  
  
“One day, Lorra, your mouth is going to get you in trouble,” warned Denys as he grabbed her by her elbow.  
  
“I care not. Trouble will find me no matter what I do,” and with this she shook free of his grasp and departed his company, which she avoided for the journey to the Eyrie—preferring proud isolation to anything else.  
  
The Eyrie was a far different place now. It seemed colder and less welcoming to him since Jon’s passing. The wind rattled against the windows more frequently than he had noticed before and the absence of Ned and Robert’s conspiratorial conversations and laughter left a deadening echo in its wake. In some ways it was worse than Ironoaks. Everywhere he turned he saw the ghosts of his youth with Robert and Ned—before the stag had been crowned, and the wolf had bloodied his snout. He saw once again the time when Robert had discovered his skill with a Warhammer—after his less than stellar performance with a sword. He saw where Ned had stood forlornly mourning the lack of a Weirwood tree in the tiny godswood. He saw the dark corner where he and Annalys had snuck off to kiss after overcoming their initial awkwardness from the early days of their betrothal. All the memories—good and bad—were here, alive again, and haunting him.  
  
But worst of all was the feeling that at once the Eyrie was his home and yet not quite _his_ home. Lorra’s words haunted him almost as much as the young innocent shades of Robert and Ned.  
  
 _You are no true Arryn. You are a weak, spineless, simpering little puppy!_  
  
Being here in the Eyrie, he felt all the weight of her words—constantly reminded of them by her stern judging face, he slowly could not help but agree. What kind of falcon was he? One whose wings had long since been clipped by his father.  
  
Soon enough he found he looked forward to the day he could return to King’s Landing for the King’s wedding.


	13. Oswell IV

**OSWELL**  
  
If anyone had told him a year and a half ago that he would be meeting with a magistar of Pentos to attend a new form of entertainment which was called a Rōvelēni, or the “singing mummer’s farce” as Oswell liked to call it, he would not have believed them. And yet in the time since he had begun working his way further into the inner circle of Varys’ Pentoshi network, the higher into its society he climbed, and the more difficult his assignments came to perform.  
  
His first assignment had been against a drunken captain who had kept more than his agreed upon share of smuggled loot one time too many. Oswell had found him not too difficult to kill as he touched his cabin boys inappropriately from what little he had observed of the man from posing as a dock hand unloading the cargo from the ship.  
  
Similar fatal faults and flaws he found with his other kills—the harbor master who took bribes, the woman who left dark bruises upon her children, the merchant who invested his money in transporting captives captured by the pirates of the Stepstones.  
  
Tonight he was to accompany Magistar Illyrio for his “protection”. This wasn’t the first time he had been assigned such a duty but it was the first time he had been told to do so in a setting so public. The Rōvelēni was to be held in the Prince’s winter palace, where the Prince had built an indoor stage for his own amusement. Oswell was to meet Illyrio at the front gate of the palace just before midday. The front gate was a tall and extravagant structure mostly made of Fyrestone from old Valyria. When Oswell had asked for directions to the palace from Lysenia, she had gone into elaborate description of the Fyrestone columns—something Oswell had explained he knew not what they were having never seen them. As Lysenia had told him:  
  
“Before the Doom of Valyria the fire god Dracaron would gather the bones of all the dead dragons and would take them back to his mountain where he would then forge the bones into fyrestone.”  
  
“A sweeter lie was ne’er told,” he had rejoined.  
  
“It’s what all the songs say,” Lysenia had countered.  
  
  
In the past year of trading songs and stories, he had begun to grow rather affectionate of the girl, imagining that this would have been the kind of relationship he would have had with his grandniece, Shella, had he chosen to stay in Westeros. He smiled and said “My girl if all the songs were true—this lonely bat would not have laid down his cape.”  
  
The fyrestone archway that housed the wrought iron gates was a sight to see, however—that Oswell had to give Lysenia credit for. It might not have been forged by a god into existence form the bones of dragons—but he could see how some might think that so. The multi-colored smooth stonework appeared to be flames frozen in time everlasting. However beyond this special property, it was like any other stone as far as Oswell could tell. So much effort put into describing a shiny stone—what a bore.  
  
He had not been waiting for long until he saw the litter carried by the group of eight strongly muscled bronze collared “serving” men which denoted Illyrio’s arrival. The litter was wooden—though it was painted gold, Illyrio’s preferred choice of color—with several golden sheer curtains to provide the illusion of privacy. Following behind were two bronzed collared servants—both of whom were women. Both of their heads were shaved and they looked quite badly beaten—were this Westeros such blatant abuses would not have been tolerated. One of the two women was tall and burly, while the other was thin and and frail. They followed in their silent manner, their eyes averted to the ground in the manner Oswell had seen many a servant adopt when about the city. Upon reaching the gate the guards stopped the litter—as they had stopped Oswell upon his arrival—and soon Illyrio emerged from the litter to talk with the guards. Illyrio had once bragged that his yellow haired self had been a great sellsword, but since rising to his position as magistar he had obviously let himself ease out of whatever training he had had as a fighter, earning himself a small gut over which he sometimes grew irritable at it being mentioned—which of course had led to Oswell dubbing him “Goldbelly”. However the gut was barely noticeable today underneath his long flowing robes of gold cloth.   
  
After discussing with the guards, Illyrio then searched the crowd until he saw Oswell, leaning casually up against the fyrestone archway. He then motioned for Oswell to approach, which he obliged—figuring that Goldbelly had spoken with the guards about his presence. The gates then opened and Illyrio returned to his litter and Oswell was allowed past and into the tiled courtyard in the front of the palace. Here several importantly dressed people of the city–nearly half of whom Oswell had seen before—strutting like proud birds displaying their plumage. Some huddled together under the shade of trees in small alcoves, others displayed themselves talking by the fountain which was the centerpiece of the courtyard, while others simply ascended the fyrestone steps into the palace itself. Goldbelly seemed to be of the latter’s opinion for his litter did not stop until it came to the steps, at which point he and his female companion did both exit the litter. Oswell was stunned by the sight of woman. Her features were that of Valyrian distinction, and she had come dressed in a white silk and sheer dress adorned with more pearls than one could count, wearing a headpiece which interwove long strands of pearls in her long flowing silver-blond hair. She almost could have been mistaken for Rhaella before her marriage to Aerys, but she was quite a bit older than that age—though she could pass for a younger age than that, and was clearly trying to do so. But most notably of all was the swell her dress tried to hide with a full and loose fitting form.  
  
“Now you see why I requested you specifically, you old bat!” teased Goldbelly with a smirk and an odd gleam in his eye.  
  
Recovering, Oswell brought a smirk of his own to his face and said, “A pearl, set in gold, always deserves the utmost of attention.”  
  
“Illyrio told me you had such a strange sense of humor… I see he has not exaggerated,” said the lady immediately without any introduction, speaking with a breathy voice that was deeper and richer than Oswell had expected to hear from her.  
  
“If we continue to go without introduction I shall be forced to have to come up with a name for you, my lady.”  
  
“Did you hear that, Illyrio? He called me ‘my lady’, oh! How sweet! How barbarically sweet!” cooed the woman, her tongue lingering to roll on Goldbelly’s name as though it were her favorite thing to say.  
  
“I did, I heard it quite well,” replied Goldbelly oddly before indicating that they should begin to ascend the steps. As they did, Goldbelly turned to Oswell and said, “My friend, I would like to introduce you to my wife, Melekliosa.”  
  
“Such a fishy name, I do not see a drop of red anywhere on your person,” commented Oswell to Melekliosa.  
  
“I was named by my master—who said I came out as slippery as a fish and red all over when I was born,” explained the Melekliosa, taking Oswell’s arm too familiarly and whispering in his ear.  
  
“How imaginative. So I take it you were not always a free citizen of Pentos, then?” asked Oswell in a hushed voice of his own as they walked through the entrance of the palace.  
  
“No, I was born in Lys—doomed to the wicked lot of having to please men and women however they liked for the rest of my life.”  
  
“How odd then, it must be to have two bound to serve you like you once were,” commented Oswell, noticing that the two servants followed behind her specifically.  
  
“Abragynes and Daryssa? They’re not slaves, they have contracts, which is more than I ever had until Illyrio freed me of that horrid gold collar,” dismissed Melekliosa with a wave of her hand and an easy laugh.  
  
Following a small crowd of people through the numerous passageways they eventually came to a large open space room in which many people had already gathered. The room was laid out like no other mummer’s stage that Oswell had seen before. This was not open to all the elements, but instead completely enclosed with no windows to speak of and what appeared to be a million candles lit everywhere. At once it was quite dark and aglow all at once. The stage was raised off the ground, but instead of thrusting out into the sea of groundlings as he had once seen attending the local mummer's stage, it remained withdrawn back and in line with the support columns which held up the ceiling. A fine purple curtain hung between the two columns, obscuring the stage from sight quite oddly. At the foot of the stage stood metal seashells obscuring the candles which obviously glowed within them from view of the groundlings.   
  
It was then Oswell felt a pull on his arm and he was led through the crowd to a door, up a flight of steps and to a raised and private seating area raised above where the groundlings were to stand. Remembering his role he at first stood up and in the corner of the private seating area, allowing Goldbelly and Melekliosa to take two of the five chairs arranged there. Melekliosa noticed this and then motioned for him to sit by her other side—which he did not do until Goldbelly gave him a discrete nod of approval. From this new height, Oswell could see the space better, that the room had not always been designed for a stage it seemed—but had been converted into the space he saw now. Directly across the room from the stage, at the same level as Oswell sat was a luxurious private seating area that obviously was intended for the Prince’s use. And just in front of the stage was a collection of minstrels with some instruments he had ne’er seen before, in addition to the ones he had expected to see.  
  
“I like to talk during these things—and Illyrio has very little to add most of these times—so I expect you and your odd humor to be at full capacity today,” teased Melekliosa. To which Oswell only grunted a response, earning himself a playful slap to his arm by Illyrio’s wife.  
  
Soon the Prince arrived in his seat and servants scurried about dousing candles except for the ones near the stage. As this occurred, the collection of minstrels was joined by a man, all dressed in black robes—like the minstrels were—and pulled out a white wand which he then began moving through the air. The minstrels took notice of this and began to plan shortly after—and the talking amongst the room quieted down.  
  
“You see the man conducting the musicians?” mentioned Melekliosa, pointing to the one waving his wand through the air, “he is the one who came up with this entire idea—his name is Clodos, and I believe this is his third Rōvelēni he’s composed—isn’t that right Illyrio?”  
  
Illyrio grunted to which Melekliosa muttered to herself in a tongue Oswell took to be her native Lyseni. As this happened the purple curtain was pulled back revealing the stage in proper. The stage was laid out so that there were three doors—a large one in the center—flanked by two smaller ones on either side of the stage. In each doorway appeared a figure. Two male and one female, all dressed in elaborate costumes—two of which depicted animals.  
  
“What are they?” questioned Oswell with complete bewilderment.  
  
“Singing mummers,” teased Melekliosa.  
  
Oswell gave her a look, to which Melekliosa gave a little laugh before leaning in closer to his ear to say, “Do you promise to speak with me throughout?”  
  
“Aye, and if you could help explain what they’re saying that would be of some help as well.”  
  
“Well, the one singing right now in the far corner is supposed to represent the old Valyrian god of Chaos.”  
  
“You mean that violet thing with a tail?” asked Oswell.  
  
Meleklios smiled and said, “Aye… Opeldyr, the lizard of Chaos, who slinks and sneaks through the shadows waiting to upset things at a moment’s notice. Right now he’s bragging to his old rival the god of Honor, about how much influence he has over men.”  
  
“That’s the white dragon?” asked Oswell.  
  
“Aye, Zalragon, the winged white dragon of honor, who soars above the petty mess of life.”  
  
The man portraying the lizard slithered and scurried across to the center of the stage, all the while directing what Oswell assumed were jibes at the white dragon, judging by how the latter was reacting. When the lizard had had his say, then the winged white dragon met him in the center of the stage and obviously began his own retorts.  
  
“Now Zalragon is saying how that while Opeldyr may have the fear of men, he on the other hand has their respect, which moves people to do things more reliably than fear.”  
  
This apparently was not to the lizard’s liking and the mummer scurried about in fury. When it seemed that the white dragon had won the debate, the third figure then broke in from her door on a raised platform—center stage in the rear.  
  
“Ahh, Lysraqa, the goddess of love, whose harp song can woo even the most stubborn of people. She’s telling both Opeldyr and Zalragon that she has the greater influence, though neither believe her. And she’s challenging them to prove their influence by making the Prince of Valyria take a wife of their choosing to show which has the most influence.”  
  
After this scene had finished each god disappeared through their own door and a new set of characters walked on stage. As Melekliosa narrated for him, the rest of the Rōvelēni was about a historical Prince of Valyria who had ruled several centuries before the Doom. The story was about the Prince being faced with the choice of three women—one his betrothed that his father had arranged for him before his death, that Zalragon was often seen with proudly presenting. The next was a woman who looked like a wildling to Oswell, but Melekliosa explained was supposed to be a Westerosi princess.  
  
“Mayhaps you can help me with her, she keeps shouting… oh how to translate it… Anger is mine, I believe? Does that mean anything to you?”  
  
“Ours is the Fury?” asked Oswell, recognizing the sentiment immediately.  
  
“Aye, that!”  
  
“They’re the house words of House Baratheon—but before House Baratheon came into existence, they belonged to House Durrandon.”   
  
It was around the Durrandon Princess that the violet lizard scurried most often.  
  
And last but not least was the high-class whore, whom love had made the Prince fall in love with by the strumming of her harp. The rest of the cast included the Prince’s childhood tutor, Otapex—whom asked the Prince to honor his father’s choice for him, and according to Melekliosa was thought to have been a very wise and learned man. The next was the Durrandon Princess’ brother who threatened war if his sister was not chosen to be the Prince’s wife. And the last one was the lusty servant woman to the whore, who was played Oswell thought by a man in a dress. What was odd about this entire performance though, even more than the fact that the music never seemed to end and the singing pause, was that the men’s voices were as high as young boys, well all except for Otapex, whose singer had a deep rumbling voice that went beneath all the others.  
  
“The mummers don’t look like boys,” mentioned Oswell.  
  
“They’re eunuchs. As boys their voices were deemed too good to be wasted and so they were cut to preserve their voices,” explained Melekliosa, while Oswell felt rather numb after that explanation.  
  
The show continued with all three women vying for the Prince’s affection. The betrothed bewailing how much time he spent with the high-class whore and singing sad songs of duty, crying upon the shoulder of the white dragon god. The Westerosi Prince and Princess plotting to kill Otapex—believing that he was speaking against them. Otapex shaming the Prince for not showing more respect towards his betrothed, and the high-class whore whispering in the ear of the Prince of how he could show how much power he had—even over the gods—by marrying her and crowning her, all the while Lysraqa played her harp.  
  
In the end the Westerosi Prince and Princess upon Chaos’ urging kill Otapex, and then flee when they hear someone coming. Otapex’s body is discovered by the Prince’s betrothed, who mourns the wise man—singing a long eulogy song to his greatness, and then she is discovered and blamed for his death, leaving the Prince free to marry the whore and crown her. She is crowned by a defeated Zalragon and Opeldyr at the urging of Lysraqa. Zalragon however finds he cannot bring himself to do so, after which the lizard stabs Zalragon, who collapses and seems to die.  
  
“That is one peculiar thing about Zalragon—he is a dying god.”  
  
“What good is a god who dies?” asked Oswell.  
  
“Honor, with age becomes very rigid and brittle… Zalragon dies so that he may be reborn again from the flames.”  
  
Oswell rolled his eyes at such a ridiculous notion. The Rōvelēni then ended with a love song between the Prince and his crowned whore, who clutched the crown and does not look once at the Prince.  
  
When it was all finished there was nothing but silence, with everyone—including the mummers—turning to the Prince of Pentos’ seat to see how he would react. Oswell thought the Prince had an surly face, but the man did give a slow and purposeful clap of appreciation, which was quickly mimicked by the rest of his guests. It was then   
  
“Wasn’t that a wonderful performance, Illyrio?” asked   
  
“Aye… quite too the point too…” mentioned Goldbelly oddly.   
  
The fattening man then leaned over and said to Oswell, “Did you get a good look at Clodos?” asked Goldbelly.  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“Could you spot him in a crowd if you had to?” asked Goldbelly  
  
Oswell nodded.  
  
“He’s your kill.”  
  
“What has he done?” asked Oswell.  
  
Goldbelly scoffed and gestured towards the stage, “You’ve seen what he’s done. I did not think the man had the gall, but apparently he does not know his place in Pentos.”  
  
“I don’t think I quite understand—” began Oswell.  
  
“That’s the reason why it must be you. Now go and do what you were brought here to do.”  
  
“Now?!” exclaimed Oswell.  
  
“Not now, but as soon as you can.”  
  
It was all happening so fast. This kill was not like the others. In the others he had been sent in disguise a week or more ahead of time to know exactly when and where to kill them effectively, to learn what else might be wrong about their character. There was something off about this kill, something personal to it…  
  
“Go on, don’t just sit there, go!” urged Goldbelly and Oswell rose and went to find Clodos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering what a Roveleni is, it's this world's version of Opera--which began in the Renaissance as something Princes would put on to show how wealthy they were. The "Father of Opera" - Claudio Monteverdi - is a contemporary of Shakespeare and Cervantes, all three are born within one or two years of each other IIRC.
> 
> In my defense, GRRM opened this door by including Shakespeare references in Braavos (see TWOW Arya sample chapter on his blog). If this world's equivalent of Shakespeare can be going on in Braavos, then this world's equivalent of Monteverdi can be going on in Pentos as they're contemporaries.


	14. Lyanna II

**LYANNA**  
  
She heard Ned through the door when she had collected herself.  
  
“Lya, I would like to speak with you,” he called between knocks.  
  
She had half a mind to open the door and scream at him for making her marry Robert, but when she did open the door she instead hugged him and cried. He accepted her and in silence they stood there in the doorway for a while before he urged her that he did want to talk with her. At which point they sat on the edge of her bed and spoke.  
  
“Robert told me,” he offered neutrally.  
  
“You here to go on about how I was wrong?” asked Lyanna  
  
“No… Robert should not have confronted you in that way…”  
  
“But he should have confronted me?” she asked.  
  
He didn’t answer her, and she supposed she had her answer.  
  
She spoke just to keep the silence from permeating the room, “It’s something I suppose I’ll have to get used to.”  
  
“Why have you been so attached to Jon?” asked Ned  
  
“Because—” began Lyanna before cutting herself off.  
  
 _I can’t tell him about my dream… can I?_  
  
She then finished by saying, “Because of my girl… my… daughter…”  
  
 _It’s mostly the truth…_  
  
At this he gave her hand a squeeze, “I should have come sooner… if I hadn’t stopped at Storm’s End—”  
  
“If you had come sooner, it wouldn’t have stopped the maid… she might have escaped had you been at Starfall earlier,” replied Lyanna, interrupting him.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, and she knew it wasn’t an apology, though to anyone else it would have sounded like one.  
  
She asked honestly, “Has he really been trying, Ned? Be honest with me.”  
  
Ned was honest with her, saying, “Up until the end of the war… yes, as far as I know. He was trying. He told me a girl tried getting into bed with him at Casterly Rock—and he threw her out of the room.”  
  
“Did he?” she questioned.  
  
Ned was short in his reply, “That’s what he told me.”  
  
“And you believed him?” asked Lyanna—not in a challenging way, but with a genuine curiosity.  
  
“He admitted something...” said Ned before trailing off.  
  
She finished his thought, saying, “That you’re not going to tell me.”  
  
“It would not be proper to speak—” he began.  
  
“You’re confusing me for your trout, Ned. Since when have I ever been proper?” snorted Lyanna  
  
He smirked at that, and then sighing he added, “If you truly wish to know that, then he should tell you, not me.”  
  
She hugged him and said, “Despite everything… and everyone, you’re still good sweet Ned…”  
  
He was surprisingly stiff at this, finally responding, “No, I’m not. If I were I wouldn’t have treated Catelyn like I have.”  
  
She assured him, “She was being more than a little unreasonable.”  
  
“How did it feel?” he asked after a long silence.  
  
“What?” she questioned.  
  
He elaborated, “To be told that you will have your future husband’s bastard raised in your home with whatever children you may have?”  
  
Gods, he was truly asking her? No… this was different. Jon was her nephew, a Stark, a wolf by blood and looks if not name. Mya… Mya was… in truth she knew not what Mya was like—she had never met the girl nor wanted to know the girl, but now it seemed she would, whether she wanted to or not.  
  
“Do you truly wish to know?” she asked him.  
  
“Aye,” was his simple reply.  
  
She took a deep breath of her own, it shaking slightly before she spoke, “It is as though whatever I say or think matters little at all. And despite his wanting to _change_ for me and his attempts at doing so, in the end I think that when he realizes that I’m not the dream he fell in love with fighting the war for—that if I fail to measure up in whatever way, that suddenly I’ll have no value anymore and he’ll just do as he wants. That it’s only when I’m perfect that what I say or think matters—and when I’m not, I’ll just be some other whore to warm his bed. And I’m not either.”  
  
Ned asked, genuinely, “How do you know all that? You’ve barely spent any time with him.”  
  
She snorted, saying, “He’s already shown that in this regard today, and this is only a small matter. And besides… it’s how I think too, why I’ve done all that I have. That’s how I know.”  
  
Ned was silent for a long moment, as though taking in her words before he hugged her.  
  
He seemed to have changed the subject, beginning, “Did I ever tell you why I thought you’d both be good for one another, despite what you said at Harrenhal?”  
  
She nearly laughed out her reply, “No, you never did.”  
  
“You’re a lot alike, Lya. When I first arrived at the Eyrie I immediately liked Robert as a friend—but I didn’t know why until later. At first I thought it was because he was so much like Brandon, and in some ways he was. But the more I spent time with him, the more I realized that more than Brandon, he reminded me a lot of you, and while you and Brandon are very similar—there are some notable differences, and he had those too. So when father made the betrothal, I thought it would be for the best—that being so alike you could understand each other and find some happiness... I expected for there to be problems—what with both of you being too stubborn for both your own good—but some shared joy as well.”  
  
He was silent for another moment before adding, “You both should talk to each other—openly, honestly. It would help things.”  
  
“What you and Cat have been doing?” asked Lyanna.  
  
 _Like what Robert had been trying to do earlier…_ teased the other part of her mind.  
  
“What we’ve been trying to do… there are still some things that are hard to speak about,” he corrected  
  
 _The war… Jon... Ashara…_ she guessed.  
  
She sighed and said, “Go get him, Ned.”  
  
“What?” he asked with confusion.  
  
She continued, “You say that I need to talk with my future husband? Well, fine I agree with you. So go get him and bring him here.”  
  
“To your chambers?!” he exclaimed.  
  
“I thought you said he was trying to be good?” asked Lyanna  
  
Ned still looked horrified, saying, “It still—”  
  
She almost laughed at having to remind him, “I’m no blushing maiden, Ned, though I appreciate your concern. We need to speak privately, and there’s no other place as private as here.”  
  
“All right, I’ll send for him,” replied her brother as he rose and then went to the door.  
  
When Ned had gone, Lyanna let go of a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding on to as she thought and crafted what it was she wanted to say. Her head was clearer now than it had been when she’d retreated here earlier. Soon a new knock was heard at the door and Lyanna took control of herself and after standing up to greet her new visitor invited him in.  
  
Robert entered a room for the first time of their acquaintance without saying a word, leaving the door open behind him. Lyanna immediately saw the reason why and urged him to shut the door.  
  
“I would not have it said by the castle that I took you before our marriage,” said Robert.  
  
She stumbled through giving her thanks, it seeming to come awkwardly to her tongue, “I… thank you for that, your grace—Robert.” She then sighed and said, “but I would like what we say to remained private—well as private as a castle full of servants’ ears can be.”  
  
She added the last bit as a way to ease the mood of the room. It had worked as well as she had thought it would, with Robert giving a small laugh, though she noticed that he did not close the door, like she had asked. So she crossed and did so instead.  
  
“What is it you wished to speak about?” asked Robert, clearly having returned to his best behavior—though his eyes did wander a bit despite himself.  
  
“In the nursery, you said you had wanted to come and admit something to me. To be honest with me, before—"  
  
“Before Jon.”  
  
“Yes, before Jon,” she then continued with, “We’re a lot alike, Robert.”  
  
“Huh?” he asked rather dimly.  
  
 _Gods this is going to be hard. But then, what things in life are easy? Start somewhere where he might follow easily enough._  
  
“Ned was telling me of why he’s always thought we would work well together—he said it’s because he thought we were a lot alike. And I agree with him, we are a lot alike.”  
  
“We are?” he asked.  
  
 _I’m that much of a stranger to you that you can’t see it, can you?_  
  
“Aye, in the way that we think as much as personality—though not in all respects,” explained Lyanna.  
  
At this Robert’s face seemed to pale.  
  
“You know exactly what I mean then—because Ned didn’t seem to quite understand what all that meant—of us being so alike,” she said with a smirk.  
  
He was quiet again, and so she continued on, “I’m not the Maiden reborn just like you’re not Aemon Dragonknight. I’m… well, I’m not perfect—but I know you would rather wish I were, that you expect and even want me to be so, just like I want the same from you. But I’m not, and neither are you. And yet we both want each other to be better than ourselves...”  
  
“Aye...” was his only response, the last sentence obviously having had some affect on him.  
  
She elaborated, “It’s like we both think so badly of ourselves because that’s the only way we’ve been told to think of ourselves... that we started to believe it... telling ourselves we did not care when truly... nothing more could be less true.”  
  
“That I’d be as lucky to have a thimble full of the honor of Ned…” he offered bitterly, obviously repeating something he’d heard at the Eyrie, and she winced at the words.  
  
 _Gods, was he compared to Ned all this time?_  
  
In response she offered something her father had been fond to reprimand her with when he was cross that she wasn’t taking to her lessons of being a lady that well, “Or that I was more a horse than a lady.”  
  
He looked at her with an odd look and then said with an appreciative manner, “Seven Hells... I never thought…”  
  
And from there they talked, for the first time about something other than their expected roles as husband and wife, Lord and Lady, King and Queen, but instead simply as Robert and Lyanna—something neither had ever attempted prior. And it felt refreshing. In a way it was like speaking with Ned, only without having to worry about offending him or holding anything back. Instead they simply agreed to let past mistakes fall to the side—to stop holding each other to such high expectations, and oddly enough it was a comfort to have in a way she had never thought she’d find it.  
  
Before they were to depart for King’s Landing, Robert came to her insisting upon marrying her in front of the heart tree at Winterfell. He said that they should marry in the sight of both gods and both ways, since they were of both faiths. Once before the heart tree and once before the High Septon.  
  
“Going through with two ceremonies seems a little redundant… why not combine them?” she suggested.  
  
And so after the weeks of traveling an recovering she was married in the eyes of Andals and First Men with an honorable nod to both their faiths. Their wedding took place in the godswood of the Red Keep—with the High Septon there to administer vows in the Faith. It would be a new tradition that he apparently thought would separate himself from his Targaryen predecessors and honor their shared First Men blood that he kept harping on repeatedly. She was now Queen by right of marriage to Robert, but in no other way—though Robert promised to have her crowned in the Sept of Baelor as a Queen in her own right as soon as it was possible—namely as soon as people could recover from the Wedding feast.  
  
At the feast afterwards, Lyanna had taken her time with each guest who came up to congratulate her—even if she did not particularly know or care about them and their wishes—recalling how Jonelle Cerwyn Glover never suspected that she’d rarely cared about anything she had ever said, and put that skill to good use. Robert for his credit kept to drinking watered ale, claiming to have grown a taste for it—and she had to admit that he did not become quite so drunk on the drink as he did on wine, and so let it be.  
  
The first group that had come up to congratulate her and Robert was the young Cersei Lannister—whom Robert had turned red with anger upon seeing.  
  
 _So this is the woman he threw out of bed at Casterly Rock then?_  
  
“Your grace, your grace,” began the golden lioness.  
  
It was going to be hard being referred to as “your grace,” she thought, but somehow Lyanna thought, as she observed Cersei go into a deep and long curtsey, that she would manage.  
  
I wanted to wish on behalf of my family—who owe the crown our lives from those vile Ironborn—Seven blessings upon you and your house. May you be blessed with many children.”  
  
“Lord Lannister is not here?” asked Lyanna, curiously.  
  
“My brother returned to Casterly Rock with my uncle a moon ago, needing to attend to some matters about all the vacant land. There’s been a flood of smallfolk and lesser nobles coming in from the Reach and the Riverlands simply claiming as much land as they can see for themselves, and in some cases even fighting over the land.”  
  
“A troubling issue, to say the least,” said Lyanna, when it became apparent that Robert wasn’t going to loosen his tongue in front of the woman.  
  
“I thank you for your consideration, and once again wish you both the best in your marriage your grace, your grace,” repeated Lady Lannister with one more curtsy before Robert waved her off.  
  
When she had crossed the room far enough away, Robert leaned over and whispered to her, “Hoster told me that the Lannisters want to marry her to Stannis—they will over my dead body.”  
  
“Don’t tempt the gods,” japed Lyanna.  
  
A long line of Crownlands nobles came and went, including the Lord Treasurer Qarlton Chelsted, all giving their seven blessings and all as quick to use this audience with the King as an excuse to air their problems before them both. With Lord Qarlton, Robert had clearly had enough—and Lyanna was nearly as ready to throttle the next person who came with their own grievances.  
  
“Lord Treasurer, we can discuss the finer points of the finances of the realm in a setting more suited to such matters than my wedding feast!” blustered Robert, and the short man gave his apologies and left them to themselves for the moment.  
  
Thank the gods it was Robert and Ned’s friend Lord Denys Arryn and his family who came up next. Lyanna spent most of the time observing her goodsister’s sister—Lysa Arryn. She was not as pretty as Cat, but she was no plain maid either. Lysa seemed to have a habit of smiling too much, a habit Lyanna had observed from Catelyn in her time at Winterfell, when she was trying to avoid thinking of something. Whatever it was though, Lyanna could tell that her husband seemed to know all too well. Lord Arryn’s two wards—his goodsisters by marriage—were having an argument from what she could gather from their hiding behind Lord Arryn and Lysa.  
  
“Don’t encourage him, or he’ll have us married off before the end of the feast!” scolded the elder.  
  
“Denys would not do that!” protested the younger.  
  
The elder countered, “We’re wards to a High Lord, they can marry us however they see fit.”  
  
It was these words which drew the attention of not just Lyanna, but of Lysa, Robert and Lord Arryn as well. The elder sister, clearly not sorry for what she said huffed, curtsied before Lyanna and Robert and crossed the room as quickly as she could.  
  
“Excuse me, your grace,” said Denys with a bow.  
  
“Understandable, Denys, go,” urged Robert  
  
It was then that several Stormlords came up to give their congratulations. They had attended along with Robert’s brother Stannis—the youngest brother Renly kept back at Storm’s End like Benjen was now, each representing their family while their lordly brothers were in the capital. Stannis was currently sitting on the other side of the hall in what it seemed to be some kind of discussion with the elder of the two sisters that Lord Arryn had brought with him.  
  
Between lords, Lyanna pointed out as much to Robert and he said, “Gods would you look at that, Stannis is actually speaking with a woman… the Others must have taken over the Seven Hells.”  
  
The Tyrells came next, Lord Mace being sure to present his rather… buxom sister Jana—whom Lyanna could tell Robert’s eyes lingered on for a bit too long, She bit back her tongue—as they had agreed to stop punishing each other and help each other—though the sight of it still irked her. Robert however recovered and accepted his well wishes.  
  
“What was that business with his sister, all about?” asked Lyanna, unable to help herself much longer.  
  
“I asked him to bring her to see if she might tempt Stannis’ frozen cock. A marriage with the Tyrells would go far to curing any bad blood,” explained Robert with a kind of cunning she did not suspect originated from himself, but rather his Hand.  
  
Next was the remaining members of the Royal family—Targaryen and Martell, who brought Mya Stone with them and had been keeping company with the young Rhaenys. While Robert wished his bastard daughter a good night, she did her best to be quite cordial to the remainder of their well-wishers. Oberyn Martell was as charming as he was reported to be, though Lyanna could clearly tell he had little love of her. His sister though was far more congenial, and Lyanna asked to meet with her, the Princess Rhaenys, and the Queen Dowager the next day. If her son, her Edrick was to marry Rhaenys, she would have to start early on building good relations with his future wife and her family. It was then that Elia and Oberyn escorted Rhaenys and Mya both to their beds, leaving the Queen Dowager and her knightly husband.  
  
The Queen Dowager and Lord Warden Hasty—Warden of Blackwater Bay—were both extremely polite. The Queen Dowager glowed with a certain happiness which Lyanna had yet to see from any married woman—but then again she also suspected the swelling bump she was trying to hide beneath her skirts might have something to do with that as well. Robert noticed though despite her best efforts to not draw attention to her midsection.  
  
“We are hoping for a girl, your grace,” explained the Lord Warden.  
  
“Indeed, and have you thought of a name?” asked Robert cooly, clearly holding something inside of him back.  
  
“Naerys, after my devout ancestress,” added the Queen Dowager.  
  
“Yes, Aegon the _Unworthy_ ’s wife was rather holy…” conceded Robert, though he perhaps lingered a bit too long on Aegon’s title than was good for family relations.  
  
“We hope that she might wish to follow her namesake’s desires in one day joining the Faith,” explained the Queen Dowager.  
  
Robert smiled, and said, “An honorable wish. And if it’s a boy?”  
  
“Baelor, your grace,” answered the Queen Dowager.  
  
“With much the same desire I presume?” asked Lyanna, feeling the need to step in at that moment, before Robert said something he might regret.  
  
“Aye, we take our faith very _seriously_ , your graces,” said Lord Warden Hasty rather pointedly.  
  
Robert pointedly took her hand and grasped it as he said, “As do I, but as King I must honor all the faiths of my subjects.”  
  
“Except for the Drowned God, your grace,” reminded the Queen Dowager.  
  
“Yes, except for that one,” admitted Robert darkly.  
  
After the remainder of the Royal family had departed Ned and Catelyn came up themselves to wish them joy. At this one, Lyanna could not help but feel that this was the end of one part of her life, and that it was coming to an end all too soon. As Ned and Robert talked, she spoke with Catelyn, telling her that she hoped to visit not long after she had given birth to her first child so that her son could meet his cousins.  
  
“They’ll probably find him to be very dull—he’ll be but a babe, and them nearly children if you come too soon after,” offered Catelyn.  
  
“I hope that he’ll have one cousin closer to his age, by that time,” countered Lyanna.  
  
At this, Catelyn’s face fell slightly.  
  
“You haven’t been—” began Lyanna.  
  
“No.” interrupted Catelyn.  
  
“Has he even tried?” asked Lyanna, which seemed to surprise her.  
  
“No, he hasn’t. We’ve talked… a lot… lately he’s been asking for some of my thoughts and opinions on things… but we’ve both had too much to handle what with the number of babes we have now—”  
  
“But you don’t have them here now,” countered Lyanna.  
  
“No, but he’s been too worried about you and Robert to even consider much else,” explained Catelyn.  
  
“Would you want him to?” asked Lyanna.  
  
Her response was what Lyanna imagined any Tully would give, “I… I would do my duty as his wife—”  
  
“Would you want him to?” repeated Lyanna.  
  
“Would that matter?” asked Catelyn with a slight scoff.  
  
 _Gods damn it Ned… I thought you two were doing better than this._  
  
She assured her goodsister, “To him, it would matter a great deal.”  
  
Catelyn looked at her as though she only partly believed her.  
  
“He’s very cautious with the people he cares for,” said Lyanna, thinking of the time she had had to convince him  
  
“Does he care for me?” asked Catelyn, truly wishing to know the answer.  
  
“Aye, I would say he does, he just doesn’t know how to show it yet,” comforted Lyanna.  
  
Then it was her turn to speak with Ned. Not caring that half the hall was watching, she hugged him, and whispered in his ear, “I’m going to miss you.”  
  
“And I, you, your grace” he admitted warmly.  
  
She then hit him lightly in the arm, affectionately “Don’t you dare call me that!” she then hit him again, saying “And be good to your wife.”  
  
“I am trying,” said Ned with a look of confusion hidden in his eyes.  
  
“She has her doubts,” countered Lyanna  
  
Ned was silent for a moment before saying, “I never meant for her to have any…”  
  
“You’ll fix it?” she asked.  
  
“Don’t worry about me, Lya. Robert and you?”

 

She sighed.

  
“We’re not perfect, but then again no one is, and that feels so good to finally admit that. And that’s something, at least,” answered Lya  
  
“Aye, it is,” answered Ned and then the dreaded opening notes of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ began. Ned gave her a look asking if she wanted him to interfere, but Lyanna shook her head, knowing that it would do no good—and besides she had some plans for how to deal with anyone whose fingers lingered a little too close.  
  
The hidden knife had done just the trick—Lyanna remembered fondly how Brandon had told her how and where to hid it on her when he’d realized that one day she would have to marry.  
  
 _Thank you Brandon… thank you…_  
  
To her credit she only drew the knife on a drunken Crownlander lordling who was immediately shoved aside and reprimanded by the older (though still lustful men) to have a bit more respect for his Queen. She looked over to see Robert flirting and enjoying the smiles that all the girls bathed him in. Once again she felt an anger simmer deep within her, but she let it go as she saw one of the girls touch him in a manner which caused his eyes to wide with shock rather than enjoyment.  
  
 _Not such a pleasurable tradition as you thought, is it?_  
  
Soon they were gathered on the shoulders of their respective groups and each dumped into the wedding chamber in nothing but their small clothes.  
  
“That one girl seemed rather excited about the whole affair,” teased Lyanna as she eyed him up—he had an admirable body, of that she had no trouble admitting.  
  
“Her hands were a little too free for my liking,” admitted Robert  
  
“And here I thought you were an old soldier of the bedroom,” she said, trying hard not to let any latent venom drip into her statement.  
  
Robert laughed good-naturedly, and then almost pouting as he said, “I’m not so old.”  
  
“Before we begin, I wanted to show you something,” said Lyanna.  
  
She then took off her smallclothes and revealed her body to him.  
  
“You have stretch marks,” commented Robert.  
  
She nodded.  
  
“You’ve born a child?” asked Robert with some obvious disquiet.  
  
She sighed and said, “I told you that Rhaegar raped me, did I not?”  
  
Robert exclaimed, “He forced you to have his child?!”  
  
 _At first I didn’t need to be forced… it was only later, after Brandon and father’s deaths…_  
  
“Moontea was kept out of my reach, and I was told that I might damage my chances at having more children if I took it at such a young age.”  
  
“That monster!” fumed Robert  
  
“I don’t tell you this to anger you about Rhaegar—what’s done is done—but to tell you something else. I… I gave birth to a girl.”  
  
“Where is she?” asked Robert immediately.  
  
“She died.”  
  
His features softened at this and he said rather simply, “Oh…”  
  
Feeling the need to explain further, she added, “That’s why I was so attached with my nephew in Winterfell…”  
  
At this Robert kissed her hand almost tenderly, keeping quiet for a moment, and then said, “Had she lived, I would have provided for her.”  
  
“What?” she exclaimed with some surprise.  
  
He announced with a bit of obvious pride in himself, “Like Orys Baratheon I would have sheltered you and your daughter ‘neath my cloak. Well, I still do so for you. He stole more than just you. He stole your first born child. She would’ve been yours—no matter his blood.”  
  
“And if the child had been a boy?” asked Lyanna, knowing she was treading on difficult ground.  
  
There was silence in the wedding chamber for a moment before Robert asked, almost shyly, “Would you have wanted a boy?”  
  
She was honest with him, saying, “Yes… I prayed for a son, so that he would one day grow to avenge me—to kill his father.” At this Robert had almost laughed—until he saw the fierceness in her eyes she suspected. She finished by saying, “Rhaegar had wanted a Visenya to complete his three heads of the dragon. It was part of his madness, so I prayed for a son to spite him.”  
  
Through almost gritted teeth, "Had I failed to kill the bastard myself and could not do the deed myself, I would've... trained the lad..."  
  
Robert was oddly quiet at this, though she could tell from how tightly he held her hand that he was quite angered, but then suddenly seeming to become aware he let go of her hand and met her eyes.  
  
“Do you still want a son?” he asked.  
  
She thought of Edrick, the boy who visited her dreams, and she nodded.  
  
He said determinedly, “Then let’s have a son.”  
  
And with that they began their marriage.


	15. Arthur II

**ARTHUR**  
  
One morning he had awoken to hear a scream. At first he had thought that some ruffians from the Reach had made their way this far North and were attempting to claim the Keep for their own—it would not have been the first time some Reachman with the name of Flowers had tried to make a lord of himself. Gods, he’d helped drive out the Ironborn only to have to face the Flowers from the south. Would the Westerlands never know any peace?  
  
Pulling on some breeches, securing them with a belt rather hastily, and sticking his feet into his boots—not forgetting to grab his sword—he heard a second round of the screams was that the villains had made it to Calena’s chambers near the upper level of the Keep. But upon rushing out the door to his chamber he nearly rushed into Calena herself, running down the stairs in the dim light of the early morning. She was only in her shift and a shawl, with some kind of iron rod—a fire poker—clutched in her hands. He ducked as she had instinctively swung before recognizing him.  
  
“Did I hurt you?” asked Calena fearfully as she realized what she had nearly done.  
  
“No, you just missed me,” he said in response as he got a good look at her and the way her shift clung to her still developing body. Seven Hells she was barely out of childhood in some ways and a woman grown in others…  
  
A third round of screams then came. It was then that he realized the screams were coming from outside.  
  
“Stay here,” he told her and he rushed down the remaining steps and to the door of the Keep. There he took notice of the courtyard that had been enclosed by their palisade and did not see any intruders. The screams seemed to be coming from the stables—the last of the five small buildings huddled in a row this close to the Keep. Arthur drew his sword and charged for the stables. There, much to his surprise he found the old woman who was their cook with a broom in one hand beating what seemed to be a dirtied vagabond whose black hair was long and filled with straw, who weakly defended himself from her broom, occasionally his arm knocking the broom to the side and grazing her.  
  
The vagabond shouted incoherently “Stop it, you old crone! I was only sleeping!”  
  
But before the cook could give the opportunity to renew her screams for a fourth or mayhaps even a fifth time, Arthur had by this point lost count, Arthur made his presence known.  
  
“Felysa, what is the meaning of this?” demanded Arthur with as much authority as he had heard his father and brother summon at Starfall.  
  
Almost immediately Felysa, the cook, stopped beating the man, who seemed to stumble and fall down—obviously soddenly drunk--  
  
“Begging your pardon Master Arthur, but I come in here to find m’boy this morning—he likes to hide in here with the stablehands when he wants to avoid bringing me wood for me fire and instead I find this here this mess of a man passed out in one of the stalls.”  
  
“And you?” asked Arthur, his sword still drawn. The man did not immediately answer beyond a groan, so Arthur made a point to kick him once to provoke a response from him.  
  
“I was just sleeping, minding my own business, when the old crone comes at me with a broom!” answered the man upon the second well placed kick.  
  
“What are you doing in these stables?” demanded Arthur more than asked.  
  
“I just got outta the forest—lost my way in there after waking up by the sea—and this was the first place I could find with a roof in a long time. I was going to wake in the morning and leave—nobody need know  
  
“Your name.”  
  
“Ain’t got one.”  
  
“Everyone has a name,” scoffed Arthur disbelievingly.  
  
“If I have, I don’t remember it,” said the vagabond.  
  
Arthur grabbed the man’s strong arm—taking him by surprise and using the flat of his blade wrapped his knuckles good and hard.  
  
“What is your name?” demanded Arthur.  
  
“I said I ain’t bloody well have one!” insisted the man, his dark eyes alight with pain.  
  
For the moment Arthur let it go, Felysa by this point discovering a small satchel full of bottles of what had likely contained wine—all of which, saving three, were emptied. Arthur took the satchel and thanked Felysa, telling her he would take care of their visitor—who had fallen asleep in the hay by this point.  
  
 _Let the drunken sod sleep, mayhaps some clue to his person is in this satchel…_  
  
And so Arthur examined the satchel, emptying it of the bottles and disappointed to find nothing else within its contents. Then hoping that enough droplets remained in the bottles he wondered if he would distinguish between wines what sort of man he was. Most of the empty bottles were cheap wines that could have been vintaged anywhere, but then he came to the relatively full bottles which looked like they had been saved for some reason.  
  
He felt his mouth water each time he smelled a bottle… gods he wanted a drink… it had been a while—as the Cleganes preferred ale to wine, and so Arthur did not feel the need to drink as much of that watered down horse piss. But wine? Sweet delicate lushious wine? His palate was on fire from the excitement.  
  
 _One little sip won’t hurt…_  
  
One little sip turned into three—one little sip from each wine. After all, how was he to tell more about these wines if he did not taste them?  
  
 _Seven blessings…_  
  
He then decided to hide the bottles, finding a corner where a lot of old tools lay that had obviously not been used since the construction of the stables a few decades ago.  
  
Not long after he had hidden the bottles did Calena come in—fully dressed and apparently informed of the situation by Felysa. To Arthur’s surprise the girl took pity upon “the poor wretch” as she called him, stating that if all he wanted was pile of hay to sleep upon then let him have it. Later that day, while enjoying the fresh air as she fed Conhur and watching him train Sandor, Arthur noticed the vagabond stumble out of the stables. He obviously was quite hung over. Sandor immediately growled upon the sight of the staggering fool, and Arthur had to take hold of his shoulder to keep him from doing something foolish himself.  
  
Calena called to the man, who seemed stunned by the invitation to join her—eying up Arthur and Sandor and the swords in their hands before cautiously doing so. His eyes immediately fixed upon her and Conhur and did not leave them.  
  
“I was told that you have been lost and traveling a great distance across land?” asked Calena.  
  
“Aye… m—my lady” stuttered the man, his eyes still fixed upon mother and child in a way that Arthur found he did not particularly like.  
  
“I’ve asked Felysa to set aside some of the leftovers we had from our last meal for you. Go into the kitchen, get some food into your belly and be on your way,” said Calena  
  
“Calena—” began Sandor, who must have suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be the Knight of the Keep  
  
“My brother, who will one day be Knight of this Keep, can show you to the kitchens,” interrupted Calena with an authority that Arthur had not yet seen from the little slip of a girl.  
  
“It’ll be a bloody waste of slop…” muttered Sandor as he did as his sister asked. The man beyond giving his thanks to Calena’s generosity stared as long as he could at mother and child before Sandor grabbed him by the arm and strong-armed  
  
“You think me foolish for taking pity on him?” asked Calena once both Sandor and the man had gone, her bark vanishing quite quickly.  
  
“What does what I think matter, my lady?” asked Arthur.  
  
After a moment’s silence she admitted, “It does to me.”  
  
“Foolish, but not so foolish with me here to keep anything from happening,” he answered.  
  
“Would you keep anything from happening?” asked Calena almost shyly.  
  
“I may have lost my white cloak and knighthood, but I am not wholly without any honor,” answered Arthur firmly, a little miffed at the underlying suggestion she had made. Had she not seen him this morning, sword drawn and ready to defend her, her brother, and her son?  
  
She tried to clarify quite quickly, “I did not mean to say I thought you hadn’t.”  
  
“Then what did you mean to say?” he questioned, perhaps a little harsher than he had meant. But Conhur at this point began to fuss and his mother had her attention drawn back to her son, and whatever moment had existed passed.  
  
The begging vagabond did not leave after his meal, instead he begged permission to stay on in some kind of position.  
  
“I’ve got no place to go, no family, no life… I could do anything you asked of me…” he had begged.  
  
And Calena provisionally agreed to it. They had been down help she later reasoned to Sandor since the Ironborn had killed many of their servants who hadn’t fled into the forest.  
  
“We know fucking nothing about this man!” shouted Sandor.  
  
“And neither does he,” countered his sister.  
  
“So he fucking says…” muttered Sandor darkly.  
  
“We need the help, he needs food, a place to sleep, and a purpose to fill out the rest of his days.”  
  
“It’s my Keep, Calena—I should decide who stays and who goes,” fumed Sandor.  
  
“You’ve not yet come of age, Sandor,” reminded Calena.  
  
“And you have? You just think that because you fucking squeezed Conhur out from ‘tween your legs that suddenly you’re as wise as the bloody Crone?” asked Sandor.  
  
Calena, obviously hurt by her brother’s remarks, said “And would the Knight of the Keep say such things to his sister?”  
  
“If she’s being a bloody idiot—damn right he would!”  
  
That began a period of Calena refusing to speak to Sandor for well over two moons. Neither brother nor sister seemed to wish to budge, despite Arthur’s best intentions to get the other to see the side of their sibling—that each cared in their own way, Sandor for his sister’s safety, Calena for the future of her brother, which would be less grim with more help around the keep. In that time the man—who took the name Murchadh—proved to find himself useful in making ropes and nets to set traps with in the woods, falling unofficially into the absent position of gamekeeper and kennelmaster for the few dogs and pups that had survived in that rickety old shack near the stables that was called the kennel during the Ironborn incursion.  
  
Sandor, ironically enough took to his training even more and hunting when he could find an excuse—anything to put distance between himself and his sister. Arthur went with him on these hunting trips since Murchadh was “obligated” to go due to his unofficial position he’d acquired. Sandor and Murchadh finding common cause eventually upon the hunting trips as the former drunken vagabond proved himself useful. Arthur would not have Calena worry about her brother being off by himself, for what increasingly became days spent hunting as much game as they could carry.  
  
It was from this last trip though that Arthur suspected Sandor would regret ever going hunting at all. When they arrived back at the keep, they found several horses tied to the post near the water trough by the stable—enjoying a good drink after an obvious long ride—and several guards wearing Lannister red and gold colors strewn about the makeshift courtyard, a few heckling one of the maids as she tried to bring a bucket of water to the kitchens. Arthur broke up the session for the girl’s benefit, and Sandor immediately demanded to know what was going on.  
  
“And who the bloody hell are you little boy to demand such a thing?” guffawed one of the Lannister knights.  
  
“The Knight of this Keep,” answered Sandor rather stoutly.  
  
“And I’m the Bloody Wolf,” japed another.  
  
None of them were dressed in anything but old hunting garments and so easily were mistaken for servants, Arthur figured. Arthur tried to steer Sandor away from the older knights, but the boy resisted his grip, it was only when a shout was heard from the Keep that Sandor even considered hurrying from . And that’s because the shout was from Calena and she had called out his name. Immediately all arguments were laid aside as brother and sister reunited. But she was not alone, alongside her stood two men—one much older than the other, with the younger looking not too much older than Sandor—a girl, and a child dwarf. The dwarf and the older man, who was gold of hair and green of eyes while the dwarf had mismatched eyes and mixed hair color, were dressed in Lannister colors and proudly displayed the golden lions on their chests. Arthur immediately guessed them to be Stafford Lannister and his nephew Lord Tyrion. The other man and the girl, both black of hair and with inky blue eyes, were dressed in red and white colors, with a sigil of a quarterly red boars’ head on white and a silver lion rampant regardant with a forked tail lion on red, beneath a langued gold stripe. Arthur did not know the Westerlands houses well enough to even guess who this boy and girl might be, but he was not soon left in the dark, as Lord Regent Stafford Lannister interrupted the brief family reunion.  
  
“Ahh, Sandor Clegane, future knight of this keep, I presume?” asked the tall golden haired and green eyed man. He had a slight resemblance to Tywin Lannister, Arthur thought, but only just slight. Had he different hair and eyes, Arthur would not have been sure that he could have thought of Stafford as cousin to Lord Tywin.  
  
“Aye… my lord…” said Sandor, giving a curt bow—which was far better a greeting that Arthur had taught him than the stare with contempt the boy had been inclined to do before hand. Arthur went disregarded, easily dismissed in these clothes as a servant, he took an opportunity to listen before revealing his identity and purpose there.  
  
“I come with good news, boy—” began Stafford, but his young lordling nephew cut him off to announce, in a rather pleased voice with himself, “Your sister and yourself are married.” Lord Tyrion Lannister said this as though it would be the best news in the world, which he obviously considered it to be.  
  
Sandor was in shock as the other man introduced himself as Ser Lymond Vikary, his new goodbrother, and his sister, Helena was now Sandor's wife as well.  
  
“Married? How? I recall saying no vows in front of any bloody Septons!” spat Sandor.  
  
Stafford continued, “With the greedy second sons and smallfolk from the Reach and Riverlands swarming our lands, a need of Westerland lords, landed knights, and heirs has arisen. Ser Lymond was one of my squires until I recently knighted him. He and your sister will secure the Vikary lands well enough. While his sister Helena and yourself should in a few years time, I imagine provide many pups with which to continue your own house and we should be able to provide land with to start their own branches of your family. With the King’s help, we’ll be able to push back these invaders to our lands for now, but that’s only for the present. It’s only with a healthy crop of Westerland blood will we secure them for the future to come.”  
  
Sandor through all this stared at Calena, who was crying by this point.  
  
“You said the words?” asked Sandor, as though she had committed yet another betrayal.  
  
“Before my own Septon!” elaborated Lord Tyrion excitedly, indicating a man who had stayed hidden behind the group until this point, dressed in the hooded robes of a holy man.  
  
“I—I can explain Sandor…” murmured Calena through her tears.  
  
Sandor however did not give her the chance to do so, instead turning back to the elder Lannister and yelling, “I still did not say any fucking words in front of any fucking Septon! You may have married her, but not me!”  
  
“I’d remind you, boy, to whom you’re speaking is the Lord Regent of the Westerlands. I’d also remind you that your grandfather had no other name but Clegane, and that a marriage to House Vikary is a step up for your house, and judging by your behavior, far more than you deserve!” replied Stafford in a huffed manner.  
  
 _He must truly be desperate for Westerland marriages…_  
  
Before Sandor could say anything worse, Arthur pushed him aside and said with a respectful bow.  
  
“Forgive him, my lord regent, but I believe he’s poorly expressing his shock at not remembering his own wedding,” explained Arthur.  
  
“The servant has better manners…” grumbled Ser Lymond.  
  
Stafford continued, saying, “He is my ward, if I so choose to marry him it is completely within my power to do so.”  
  
“I am not your ward!” growled Sandor. Arthur gave the adolescent a look which thankfully left his protest quieted for the moment.  
  
With a smirk, Stafford continued saying, “But you are. Upon the death of your father and brother, you and your sister immediately fell under the care of your eldest male relatives—and after them your eldest married female relatives—and seeing that neither your grandfather nor your father had any siblings, that left you to become a ward to Casterly Rock—as all orphaned knightly and noble children without any family become. And seeing as my nephew is my ward, thus you are mine through him.”  
  
“Still doesn’t change the fact that I wasn’t there!” protested Sandor.  
  
“Oh, but you were,” countered Stafford, who produced a roll of parchment—a marriage license—which declared that Sandor Clegane and Helena Vikary were legally married. Beneath was the scratchy signature of a child that Arthur presumed to be the girl’s and next to that, in yellow wax was the three dogs sigil of House Clegane in place of his signature.  
  
“That’s—that’s…” began Sandor in shock.  
  
“That’s perfectly legal,” sneered Stafford as he rolled back up the parchment and vanished it up his sleeve.  
  
“Come now, I see you and your huntsman have brought back game enough for a wedding feast. Let us celebrate, brother,” said Ser Lymond trying hard to have as much affability as any newlywed lordling might possess. Suddenly realizing that he was the huntsman, Arthur assisted Murchadh with the game, thankful to be given an excuse to escape any further discussion.  
  
The feast was the most solemn of wedding feasts that Arthur had ever attended. He was sure to dress in his best clothes to silently dispel this notion he was any sort of servant to the Cleganes, and when he arrived in his only tunic containing the sword and falling star symbol of his house of birth, many faces did suddenly recognize him who before had dismissed him, though none dared approach to offer an apology—he after all was a knight without honor as far as they were concerned.  
  
Lord Tyrion immediately recognized him though and requested that he sit by him, asking all sorts of questions throughout the meal about Dorne, House Dayne, the difference between Stony Dornish and Salty Dornish, how edible were Dornish peppers, what Blood Oranges tasted like, and all sorts of questions the mind of a curious child could come up with. Arthur upon this further acquaintance with the young lordling did not believe the child intended any harm nor malice, but was merely under the misapprehension that forced marriages would solve the problems of the Westerlands--a notion that his nuncle had likely nursed in his mind.  
  
“Everyone in the Westerlands will be married,” exclaimed the boy happily enough.  
  
“And what if they do not wish for that, my lord?” asked Arthur, to which the little lordling had no reply, as if the thought had not even crossed his mind.  
  
Later after Ser Lymond and Calena had been carried to their shared wedding chamber for the night by the drunken Lannister knights, Sandor, who had sat in stony silence next to his child-bride abandoned her and approached Arthur at the other end of the table.  
  
“How do you like your new lady wife?” teased Arthur, hoping to lighten the boy’s spirits some with the kind of banter that had become more prevalent in their sparring as of late.  
  
“She’s not my wife! Nor will she ever be so,” spat Sandor.  
  
“That paper Lord Stafford has, says otherwise,” retorted Arthur.  
  
Sandor’s face twisted into a cruel mockery of a smile, “A marriage is not a marriage until the woman is bedded, and I will never share a fucking bed with her. Not now, not in a few years time. And until she can prove she is with child by me, I will not accept the bitch as my wife!” declared Sandor a little too loudly. Enough for Arthur to notice the girl look up her inky blu eyes fill with tears and her to rise from the table and run up the steps to a chamber that had been indicated earlier in the day as her own.  
  
“Now look what you’ve done,” muttered Arthur.  
  
“Are you actually taking her side?” growled Sandor.  
  
“Protect the innocent. How much choice do you think she had in this marriage, Sandor?” asked Arthur pointedly.  
  
“She signed the paper didn’t she?” asked his would-be squire darkly.  
  
Arthur rounded on his question, saying, “How much choice do you think she had with Lord Stafford and her brother hovering over her? The poor girl’s been through enough—the least you can do is show her some small amount of kindness.”  
  
“She will never be my wife!” once again stubbornly proclaimed Sandor.  
  
“You will treat her kindly nonetheless!” snapped Arthur earning him the glares of a few drunken knights, but he cared not—he’d had more than a few cups himself of bottles of wine that Vikary had brought for the occasion of his marriage.  
  
To his would-be squire’s credit, he dropped the subject and changed it abruptly.  
  
“I didn’t come over here to talk about the child,” said Sandor, sitting down in the empty seat next to him. Cordially Arthur took the bottle he had been nursing and grabbing an empty wooden cup, filled it up for his would-be squire.  
  
“Then say what you feel you must,” muttered Arthur, taking another swig from the bottle having finished pouring—oh this vintage burned going down, but it left a good after taste on the palate.  
  
“I don’t want Calena to leave. I didn’t go after her only to lose her again,” said Sandor quite vulnerably.  
  
“Unfortunately sisters marry—it is the nature of things.”  
  
“Aye, she is married… to you,” added the boy.  
  
Arthur nearly spat out the wine he had been drinking instead forcing himself to swallow rather than spit.  
  
“Don’t tell me you have a little slip of paper with a purple wax and the sigil of a falling star on it hidden somewhere?” asked Arthur darkly.  
  
“If you say my sister was already married—that you did so to give her some amount of honor after the bloody Ironborn shamed her—she could stay.”  
  
Arthur reminded his would-be squire pointing up to the ceiling, “In case you haven’t forgotten, your sister is currently upstairs fulfilling her marriage vows and being bonnie and buxom in bed as we speak.”  
  
His would-be squire had apparently thought up an explanation for this, saying “She was coerced with us being absent.”  
  
“And when we returned and I did not speak up?” queried Arthur  
  
“You want her to go!” snapped Sandor  
  
“Not at all pup, you’re just not thinking clearly about this. Say we go with what you suggest and tell them both that I married your sister. If they take us seriously, they’d ask why we married in secret and did not acquire the permission of her guardian.”  
  
“My sister has borne a child, she’s a woman grown—” started Sandor.  
  
 _Oh how quickly do you change your tune when it suits you, pup!_  
  
Arthur cut him off with, “Until a woman is married she is considered the ward of her family, to be taken care of by her father, and after his death her closest male relatives who are of age, and you know the rest from there. Your sister until this day was not married, and so was his ward. Thus any marriage which occurred without his consent can be nullified just as easily. And even if he did forget that part, where is our documentation as well as where are the witnesses to this marriage?”  
  
“I—” began Sandor.  
  
Arthur cut him off immediately, “Despite your advancing years, and your landed knighthood, you are still a green boy and a ward—no one would give any weight to what you have to say. You would need at the very least the Septon who married us plus one other who is a respected member of the kingdom—meaning you can’t just have anybody, it has to be a person well known and well respected for their word, typically that witness is your liege, or a fellow lord or knight, and in one night can you find two such people willing to say as much?”  
  
Sandor knew not what to say, his mouth opening and closing more like fish as he struggled to come up with something in his defense, but the words never came.  
  
Arthur had made his point, and he punctuated it by adding, “Lord Regent Stafford has you both by the tail, and there’s nothing either you or I can do about it.”  
  
His would-be squire with as much dignity as he could muster silently rose—his face fumingly made, but his eyes betraying the tears that wanted to fall. Arthur pitied him, he had found his sister only to lose her once again.  
  
“She won’t be held captive by her husband and in time you and your lady wife would most likely visit her, and you can always exchange letters by raven,” he said, trying to ease the pain of his sister’s loss somewhat.  
  
“But she wouldn’t be here,” said Sandor once again and he turned on his heels and with as much dignity as a boy of four and ten could muster he marched up the stairs.  
  
Ser and Lady Vikary were to leave the following morning, so as to secure Vikary lands from an upstart Riverlander who’d taken up residence at Boarshead Hall, the name of the keep of House Vikary.  
  
Calena and Sandor for their merit talked before the departure was to take place. The new Lady Vikary had changed her yellow and brown plain dress for a slightly richer red and white dress that had been brought as a wedding gift. She tried pulling up the low cut of the dress to little avail, leaving her to have to walk around with a shawl to regain her modesty.  
  
Arthur let the two siblings talk alone, unofficially standing guard as they did so. His head was a bit numb from all the wine he had drunk last night, but he would see to it that Sandor and his sister’s farewell was all that it should be—without any interruptions.  
  
When it came time to leave, Conhur wrapped all for the journey, Ser Lymond dealt a final blow to House Clegane.  
  
“For the affection for which you have for that abomination, I have held my sword, my lady wife, but the bastard will not be joining us at Boarshead Hall.”  
  
“But he has yet to be weaned from me,” protested Calena  
  
  
Ser Lymond forcibly took Conhur from his mother and dumped him in Sandor’s arms.  
  
Ser Lymond retorted, “A wetnurse can be just as easily found, and I am sure that our brother will take proper care of your blood—even if it has iron in it.”  
  
“This is happening all too quickly!” shouted Calena.  
  
“There is little time. We must be on the road if we expect to make Lannisport before nightfall,” countered her husband.  
  
“There ought to be time enough for Lady Vikary to say goodbye to her son,” offered Arthur. Calena looked at him with gratitude not long after.  
  
After considering the proposal, Ser Lymond scowled and said, “A minute, no more,” before mounting his horse.  
  
Sandor gave his nephew back to his sister, who held him in her arms for what seemed to be only be a few moments, tears dripping onto her son’s face.  
  
“It’s time we go,” urged her husband then, and with a sniffle, she gave her son back to the waiting arms of his uncle.  
  
“I’ll take care of him, Calena,” said Sandor quietly. Arthur added his own support to Conhur’s upbringing to ease the departure of his mother.  
  
And with a hug careful not to hurt the babe, She kissed her brother on the cheek and then gave Arthur a meaningful look, thanked him and then after a cough from her husband, was helped upon her horse by a stableboy.  
  
As the horses left through the rough wooden gate that he and Sandor had built since the discovery of Murchadh, and Conhur began to whimper and whine at the absence of his mother, Sandor said quietly, “She said that they forced her… said that if she didn’t agree to it, that they’d take me away to Casterly Rock so that we’d never see each other again, and drag her into a Sept anyway…”  
  
Arthur in this one moment knew not what to say, so instead put his arm on Sandor’s shoulder and for once the pup of a boy did not shrug it off. The moment was eventually disturbed by the tiny voice of the new Lady Helena Clegane, who despite her two and ten years of age, tried to stand as tall as a woman twice her age—failing miserably at doing so.  
  
“I can take the babe my lord husband,” said the girl rather sweetly.  
  
Sandor however looked at her as though she were some kind of giant rat, and clutching his nephew tightly brushed passed his child-bride and returned to the keep.  
  
“Give him time, my lady. This is all very sudden for him…”  
  
The girl said nothing in response to him, simply following after her child-husband slowly, leaving Arthur to have the makeshift courtyard to himself.


	16. Oswell V

**OSWELL**  
  
He managed to find his way to the rooms set aside for the singing mummers’ uses by following the mummer dressed as the violet lizard Opeldyr—no longer scurrying to and fro, the mummer walked rather noticeably and stuck out in the crowd rather foppishly. Oswell knew best that in order to blend in amongst the half-dressed mummers who now up close looked ridiculous with how their faces were painted, he had to act as though he belonged. This skill he had learned over the last year amongst dock workers, wealthy guests, and heckling merchants how to blend in with just about any sort. If he seemed to belong no one would question whether he actually did or not, and so he modeled his stance off the loose carefree manner in which the singing mummers moved between rooms and chatted amongst one another. As he nonchalantly explored each room he grew more concerned that he had followed the wrong group of people.  
  
And then, just by his luck a general meeting of the mummers was called as they all quickly scurried into a room he had yet to enter. As he stood near the door—near a mummer or two who could not fit inside the cramped room, he saw Clodos—still in his long black robes speaking quite quickly in Pentoshi to the entire cast. From what little of his body language that Oswell managed to catch, he was extremely happy with the performance and enthusiastically spoke not only to the group but each of his mummers as well—no doubt congratulating them, Oswell figured.  
  
When Clodos had finished speaking and the singing mummers had dispersed, a small girl—a few years younger than Andella’s boy—prior to hidden from his view came running through the departing group of singing mummers and rushed into Clodos’ room crying, “Kepa! Kepa!”  
  
Oswell froze, immediately understanding the situation from the word alone.  
  
 _Seven Hells… I can’t kill him in front of his daughter!_  
  
Oswell observed from near the threshold as the scene continued to unfold—looking to see if mayhaps he could judge the man’s character from his interaction with his daughter—if he ignored her or hit her… aye that could be enough to dismiss the doubts creeping into his head.  
  
But instead he observed the absolute joy of the girl as Clodos tossed her into the air with a delighted squeal and spun her around before collapsing with her in his arms into a chair while they both laughed.  
  
Oswell was doomed. How could he justify _this_ kill?  
  
“You can’t do it, can you?” asked the deep voice of a woman in the common tongue. Oswell turned around to see the taller and bulkier of the two serving women contracted to Melekliosa standing there. Abragynes he thought her name was… and an odd name too… Woman-Bear? Well, Oswell though, she was not a slip of a girl, that was for sure, so mayhaps on appearance, then?  
  
“Excuse me?” he asked when he’d remembered that she had asked him a question.  
  
“You’re not completely without your honor… you may have lost your white cloak, but you have not lost that,” said the woman.  
  
She was speaking as if she knew of him.  
  
 _But how?_  
  
 _Well, she is Melekliosa’s servant and Goldbelly told his wife all about him, likely Abragynes overheard parts…_  
  
But she speaks the common tongue awfully well and without a Pentoshi accent—even Obi has an accent…  
  
Oswell shook his head. He had to remember he was speaking with this ‘woman-bear’. “You can tell your master that it will be done.”  
  
With an odd smile, the tall woman shook her head and said rather confidently, “No, it won’t.”  
  
“And how would you know that?” he challenged, feeling slighted slightly at her suggestion.  
  
“Once when you were but a squire, your family held a tournament… in it you went up against another boy near your age who was… well, for luck of a better term, quite green in the ways of fighting, and yet you pulled no tricks. And when you had knocked him from his horse, you jumped down and gave your hand to help him up rather than bask in the cheer of the crowd,”  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
“That boy was a vassal to my brother, who convinced me to run away with him to the tournament. I was young and foolish enough to do so, but to this day, I still recall that tournament.”  
  
Oswell racked his mind through all the tournaments he ever fought in—there were far too many at this point, but suddenly he did remember a tournament where he had done just that. At the time he’d felt sorry for the boy—being from the North he hadn’t had much experience with tourneys, and had entered without proper attire. The boy could have been killed, but he had chosen to go on with his challenge, despite his disadvantage. Oswell had admired the boy’s pluck…  
  
Vaguely he recalled asking the boy his name and he could, even now, dimly hear the adolescent’s voice reply, “Evan Paw, of House Paw, sworn to House Mormont.”  
  
“Mormont?” he said tentatively.  
  
The woman replied stoically, “Aye, that is my family name.”  
  
He forgot everything that he had come here to do. In this most extraordinary of meetings and the first person of Westerosi origins he’d had the pleasure of speaking with in a long time. And he had so many questions to begin with.  
  
“How?”  
  
“Not here,” was her curt relply, her eyes quickly darting amongst the milling and moving singing mummers.  
  
“Right… why are you here?”  
  
“My mistress asked me to be sure the job was done. And before you ask, she knows about me. The question is, Whent, what are you going to do?” asked the Mormont woman.  
  
What was he going to do? It was quite a dilemma. On the one hand he had yet to truly penetrate into Varys’ innermost circle. He had climbed quite high in this past year of killing scum, but there was always some amount of distrust to his inclusion. He had yet to learn from whence the pretender babe Varys had found had come from—nor where these other pretender black dragons were to arise. From what dealings he had heard, Varys it seemed more interested in coalescing his hold and influence in the Free Cities rather than having his focus on Westeros, but then he was not privy to all his meetings. He could kill this courtly minstrel and his daughter to gain himself further admittance, but where would that leave him? How could he live with their deaths on his conscience? And suddenly he realized that there was no choice to make.  
  
“Wait here,” he told the waiting Mormont woman.  
  
She looked at him long and hard before nodding.  
  
Having settled that, Oswell entered the room Clodos and his daughter were in, shutting the only door out of it behind him and causing oth the musician and his daughter to break from thei conversatinon and look up at him. After the obligatory questions of: Who are you?; Do you speak the Common Tongue?; and What are you doing here?; had all been answered, Oswell got down to business.  
  
“Excuse my intrusion, but it has been brought to my attention that you and your daughter are not safe here in this city.”  
  
“And who are you to threaten me thus?”  
  
“I bring no threat, only a warning… a warning for you to leave Pentos now—this very day!”  
  
“Who sent you?”  
  
To tell the truth and risk him call for help, or not?  
  
He decided with the not, saying, “A friend.”  
  
“A friend who is not very aware of the Prince’s guards, I see,” countered the man sourly.  
  
Oswell grinned, knowing a false air of confidence was needed, saying, “I am here now are I not? They have not stopped me from seeing you.”  
  
There was a long silence in the room between both men.  
  
At long last the courtly minstrel said, “Say I take your advice, where would I go?”  
  
Oswell this time cast his face in a solemn mold and said, “Across the Narrow Sea, there is a man named Oberyn Martell. Tell him that the Bat sent you. He will help you then.”  
  
“And how exactly am I to find this one man out of many on an entire continent?” asked the man pointedly.  
  
Oswell thought on this for a moment before responding, “There is a woman outside this room who can help guide you, if you help her escape as well.”  
  
He just had to hope the Mormont woman would jump at the chance to escape—like any Westerosi would.  
  
“Why do you do this?” asked Clodos  
  
Oswell struggled with how to at once gain his trust and communicate his meaning. Then at last he thought of one turn of phrase, stating, “Because, I cannot crown the whore.”  
  
Clodos was confused but for a moment before recognizing the hint and nodding his head. After this, Oswell took his leave, as Clodos and his daughter began tearing through some of the mummer’s costumes. Once outside he pulled the Mormont woman into an abandoned room, and told her of his plan.  
  
“Escape?! I cannot escape!” nearly shouted the woman, a desperate look overtaking her face.  
  
“Do you want to stay here?” asked Oswell, motioning for her to keep her voice down.  
  
The otherwise tough looking woman seemed to melt before him, saying, “No, but they will find me! They always find me… I’ve tried escaping… each time they just drag me back…beat me, and… gods, I can’t escape!”  
  
Oswell countered, looking to the costumes of the mummers hanging about the room, “You can… if you don’t look like a servant.”  
  
He immediately went about the room grabbing a large robe and looked about for a wig of false hair to cover her shaved head.  
  
But the Mormont woman said, at long last as he searched for this final object, “I can’t escape while they have my girl!”  
  
Oswell stopped, his attention grabbed immediately, “Your girl?”  
  
“Aye… Lyra… she’s but a babe… I can’t leave her here,” explained the woman.  
  
No she couldn’t.  
  
“Where is she?” he asked.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Where is she, now?” he demanded.  
  
She gave a defeated huff of air before saying, “I know not… after my last attempt, they took her from me. But somewhere in Illyrio’s palace—for they still bring her to me to feed her.”  
  
Seven Hells, this would be harder than he thought…  
  
“At the dockyards there is a place you, Clodos and his daughter can hide—go to the back of the custom’s house and behind it you’ll find a statue of a fisherman—pull on the tail of the fish and a hidden chamber will open up. Wait for me there. I will bring you your daughter there.”  
  
Oswell knew there was a long chance of succeeding, but given that he knew Goldbelly liked to stay out and enjoy an evening in the city than spend a quiet hour at home, it was possible—slim but possible.  
  
“But—” began the she-bear.  
  
He insisted, “You are leaving this city tonight, my lady,” handing her his sword to give her strength. He had yet a dagger on him if needs be, but he knew enough of the North to know most of their women were trained in arms. He would also depart tonight, for there would be no staying after this.  
  
And with that said a determined look overtook the Mormont woman’s face and she collected herself, her natural armor seeming to rise and the she-bear within her to emerge. She took the mummers’ clothes and exchanged them for her own. Oswell then checked on Clodos and his daughter—both completely unrecognizable, his daughter now appearing a boy and Clodos an old man. He sent the Mormont woman to him reminding her of the hiding place and then took his leave.  
  
He left the palace of the Prince much easier than he entered—ducking out a back gate through which servants and the minstrels exited. Once again, his behavior of believing he belonged helped him blend in.  
  
Goldbelly’s manse was not too far from the Prince’s palace, and he was acquainted enough with the guards to bluff his way past them into the guards. Getting in was the easy part, it would be harder exiting with the babe.  
  
He began his search in the servants’ quarters, speaking with none saying he was on “Illyrio’s business”, which is the excuse he gave when taking the mewing infant from the wetnurse in a dark dungeon of a room beneath the servants’ quarters.  
  
He wrapped the young girl and hid her in a basket he found, then, hoping his ruse would work made as quick an exit as he could. The guards were too busy heckling a passing whore when he came to the gate to leave to truly care that he was leaving, and so Oswell felt all was going good and safe. After getting out of sight of the manse he began to hasten his steps, careful not to run to shake the babe within the basket, but at a quicker pace nonetheless. He had to make it down the narrow streets to the harbor. He aimed for taking mostly deserted streets—where he might be able to see any approaching men. By now the sun had set and the shadows became long, the streets more deserted as the moon came out and bathed the streets in its silvery glow. Oh how he hated to walk the streets at night—but this could not be helped.  
  
He was nearly halfway to the harbor when he heard something scurry behind him in the shadows. He stopped, and caught the tail-end of whatever it was trying to do the same—but failing to not be heard. His eyes examined each shadowy recluse and corner of the street, eventually discovering in the dark a form he recognized quite easily—that of Obi, Andella’s son, trying to remain conspicuous in the shadows.  
  
“Come out Obi,” said Oswell, and the violet-haired boy scurried out quickly from his hiding spot. He had grown slightly lanky in the past year, but he was still very much a boy with his one and ten namedays.  
  
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asked.  
  
Knowing that this would be it, he said, “I’m leaving.”  
  
“Pentos?” asked Obi  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“To where my father is?” asked Obi.  
  
“Aye,” answered Oswell, though this was the first time in nearly a year the boy had spoken of his father.  
  
“Could mother and I come?” he asked.  
  
“If you hurry and meet me at the docks,” urged Oswell—might as well pull up his stakes while he could.  
  
With a nod, Obi then scurried back into the shadows lizard-like, leaving Oswell to continue on his way. He made it to the docks, found the Mormont woman, Clodos and his daughter, and gave them the daughter. He then spoke with the harbormaster he had helped install after his killing of the previous one, saying that a ship bound for Westeros was required upon the Dārys Genes’ command. The harbormaster, knowing the fate of his predecessor did not argue, and did as he was commanded.  
  
A small ship, the Dragon Wing, was making the short trip across the Narrow Sea that very night, everything it seemed was falling into place, perfectly. Until then he saw Obi emerge from the shadows with a crying Lysenia behind him.  
  
“Where is your mother?” Oswell asked of the boy.  
  
“Gone!” he exclaimed, a frightened look crossing his face.  
  
“My father, too! I… I saw Obi rushing by and asked if he had seen you, he said he could take me to you,” said Lysenia as she cried into a scrap piece of cloth she kept on her person.  
  
He had to leave, there was no way he could stay for much longer, to tarry now could cost him his life and the lives of those he was smuggling out of the city. And if Varys had had men take Lysenia’s father, he was likely looking for him. There was no other choice but to leave.  
  
“Come, you two, onto the boat,” urged Oswell.  
  
“The boat?” asked Lysenia with some confusion through her ceasing sobs.  
  
“Your father’s dead most likely, and the man I know mayhaps will come for you next if you stay here and mayhaps not. You can choose to take that risk if you would like, or you can come with me.”  
  
The girl looked perplexed as though not knowing what to say. Just then he heard a few streets away shouting, and could see the shipmates looking impatiently, wanting to leave before the tide became too low.  
  
“We haven’t time girl to tarry, will you come or no?” demanded Oswell.  
  
Silently the girl nodded her head and Oswell ushered them both onto the boat, Obi not once letting go of her wrist as he nearly dragged her on board. With all ties to the city either on board or missing at Varys’ likely army of little mice, Oswell washed his hands of Essos, or so he thought at the time.


	17. Stannis

**STANNIS**  
  
The new Queen was a pretty thing, Stannis had to admit, but then again, Robert had always been drawn to pretty women. She wasn’t stunningly beautiful, nor was she as plain looking as her elder brother, but she was good looking enough for his brother to be satisfied, for now. Stannis doubted whether his brother’s appetites would ever be satiated completely, but if the woman could inspire more moderation in his own brother, then Stannis felt that he could come to respect his new goodsister given time and proper acquaintance. Robert’s habits had always been an embarrassment on the family, but now that he was finally settling down and taking life a bit more seriously, Stannis hoped to find more in common with his brother. Mayhaps they might even be more like brothers should be. One could always hope.  
  
He’d inherited Storm’s End as part of Robert’s plans for the Stormlands, which his grace still had the notion were his to solely command—forgetting that Stannis was now lord of their ancestral domain. No more did this become apparent than with the question of what to do with Renly made its appearance as an issue for the entire Small Council to debate!  
  
“We are agreed then that the title of Lady of Cracklaw Point is to be given to the Lady Lyanna upon her coronation, but my King is it to be a title that all Queens occupy, or simply just this Queen, with the title passing on to yours and the lady’s descendants?” asked Lord Hoster.  
  
“I think concerning the inheritance of that title it should be a matter best left to my she-wolf and her people, considering that the First Men on the point are so independent minded.”  
  
“Of course...” sighed Lord Hoster.  
  
  
“What I’m more concerned about is what to do about Summerhall!” pronounced Robert.  
  
“What about it, your grace?” Stannis asked, not liking the tone Robert was taking.  
  
“I intend to rebuild the damn thing.”  
  
“As a royal residence?” asked Lord Qarlton, his voice betraying his obvious apprehension.  
  
Stannis stared at his brother. If he intended to rebuild Summerhall so that his future son may have a title of his own, he could understand that—given that Dragonstone, the traditional seat of the heir was now the seat of Princess Rhaenys, Lady of the Narrow Sea, it would of course be the obvious move to rebuild Summerhall, the traditional second son’s castle and make that the seat for his heir to be.  
  
“No, I intend to make Renly lord of the damn place.”  
  
Stannis immediately felt as though he had been drenched with a bucked of ice cold water. What was Robert thinking? To rebuild the damn place for his heir as a royal palace made sense, but to rebuild it so as to make Renly—who was his charge, since Robert had never taken the slightest bit of interest in looking after their youngest brother ever—a lord in his own right. It was not that he was against giving Renly such a position. After all, a liege lord should provide something for his younger siblings, but for Robert, as King, to do this set a precedent that Stannis was sure no other High Lord would consider tolerating.  
  
“Fell, Cafferen, and Grandison planned to gather there so they could march on Storm’s End until I caught wind and defeated them o’course. But still the place should be rebuilt and held by someone loyal—to keep dissidents from using it as a gathering place again.”  
  
Fine concerns for the Lord of the Stormlands to consider rebuilding Summerhall, but Robert was not the Lord of the Stormlands anymore. Stannis wanted to say this and more, but he knew calling his brother into question before the rest of the small council like that would not be taken well—and would be a sign of disrespect. He clenched his teeth to hold his tongue, moving them back and forth in a grinding motion that he had found soothing to some degree when put in situations like these. He would have to wait until he had private conference with his brother.  
  
Luckily enough Lord Qarlton expressed doubts as to whether the crown could afford such an expensive project on top of all the other projects it had already undertaken.  
  
“I thought Aerys left the coffers full,” grumbled Robert.  
  
“He did your grace, but the cost of rebuilding Maegor’s Holdfast along with the expenses from defeating the Greyjoys, holding the Tournament of the Hand, the gifts of gold you’ve given out already, and the Royal marriage have already spent what we have collected in taxes—which has shrunk since the creation of the Paramountcy of the Narrow Sea. If we continue spending at this rate the crown will exhaust the treasury within a decade.”  
  
“A fine point to make, Lord Chelsted,” admitted Hoster Tully with an  
  
“I didn’t plan on having the entire place rebuilt in a year! Renly’s only a little over four namedays old” protested Robert.  
  
“He just had his sixth nameday within the last moon,” reminded Stannis.  
  
“Four, six—close enough. Still, I’d have the castle finished by the time he’s become a man grown or mayhaps a little after. Surely that won’t bloody drain the coffers!” insisted Robert.  
  
“It is not a question of whether we can afford it your grace—we can, it is simply that I do not feel confident in overspending more gold than we take in each year as we’ve done this year. We can do the project, provided we make certain to remain within the amount of money we’ve already collected from our taxes," expounded Lord Qarlton  
  
“Why should I concern myself about doing that when I’ve got coffers left nearly filled by that damned burning dragon!”  
  
“They won’t remain full for forever if we continue to overspend, your grace, and I haven’t even gone over the household costs of the Red Keep with your steward yet,” warned Lord Qarlton.  
  
“Then what would you suggest, Lord Qarlton?” asked Robert.  
  
“Merely that we put down a planned budget which we agree to adhere to so that this problem of overspending does not happen again. We stay within our means and try to put a little aside so that our coffers remain relatively full should something truly costly come up.”  
  
Robert gave his signature half rumbling sigh and said “Agreed,” while waving his hands to dismiss any further notion of the subject of a budget for the moment.  
  
“So have we agreed or not on whether to rebuild Summerhall?” asked Prince Oberyn impatiently.  
  
“It is we’ll do a little bit at a time over the coming years,” determined Robert with a knowing look to Lord Qarlton.  
  
“Is there no other business then?” asked Prince Oberyn  
  
And before Stannis could mention how even more pirate raids were occurring along the coasts of the Stormlands, Hoster Tully interrupted asking, “Are you in much of a hurry, my Prince?”  
  
“I am, I promised my daughters that I would take them to the sea this afternoon, and I would like to keep my word, so if there is nothing else—” began the Prince.  
  
  
Stannis felt the need to interject here as the Dornish Prince began to stand, “There remains the issue of pirates on our eastern coasts.”  
  
His comment was met with an outburst from his brother, “I thought you had sent your ships to deal with the problem!”  
  
“I sent them to guard the coasts, but they cannot be everywhere on our coasts all the time, and we only have so many ships,” reminded Stannis.  
  
  
More than a few of which needed to be replaced, seeing as he had gathered what existing ships he could from the Stormlands only having time to build a small number when building up a fleet upon Robert’s orders before. And they had needed repairs after the Greyjoy Rebellion. And now with these pirate raids increasing he really needed a larger fleet to command.  
  
“We’ll speak on this anon,” mumbled Robert as he dismissed the majority of his Small Council’s Weirwood table. Robert then pulled Lord Eddard to the side and began to speak with him privately as the rest of the small council departed.  
  
For his own sense of self-respect, Stannis tried hard to retreat to a corner of the Small Council’s spacious meeting room that would make overhearing Robert’s business with Lord Eddard, harder, but considering his brother had always had a loud booming voice, this was an exercise in futility. They discussed Lord Eddard’s position as Commander of Arms and Men, seeming to have run into the difficulty that Lord Eddard had yet to begin taking into account what training was occurring across the Seven Kingdoms.  
  
“I cannot go to each corner of the Seven Kingdoms myself! How am I to raise so many wards and travel the Seven Kingdoms? I’d spend an entire year traveling to cover only parts of it!” protested the Northerner.  
  
“Denys has a man who sees to more of the menial work for him. Mightn’t you have a few who travel the Kingdoms in your name?”  
  
“I’ll look into it,” Stark promised before taking his leave respectably.  
  
Robert sighed seeing that Stannis was still there, and asked, “What is it you wanted to bloody talk with me about.”  
  
“Summerhall,” stated Stannis simply.  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re against Renly being made a lord,” warned Robert.  
  
“I am not, but he will be my bannerman if you rebuild Summerhall.”  
  
“Yes, your point being?” asked Robert, clearly wishing him to arrive at his point so that he could finish speaking with him.  
  
Stannis caught himself before clenching his teeth—doing that now would not help matters any—and swallowing before speaking he instead asked, “How do you think your friend Lord Stark would respond to the crown rebuilding an old fortification up in the North and installing his younger brother in that castle?”  
  
“Speak plainly Stannis, I could never follow the circles you speak in,” said Robert as he rose and crossed to a window to look out into the gardens below.  
  
Stannis persisted in his analogy, “Mightn’t your friend, begin to become worried that the crown might be trying to set up a rival to his power as Lord Paramount?”  
  
“Are you really frightened of our four nameday old brother?” laughed Robert, still looking out into the gardens.  
  
Stannis emphasized, “ _Six_ namedays and no I am not! I am simply saying that were I not your brother that a man in my position might be worried the crown was trying to undermine my own authority within my own lands.”  
  
“Is that what you’re scared of?” asked Robert, a laugh still on the tip of his speech, turning to face him for a moment before his eyes were drawn back to the gardens.  
  
Stannis countered, “I am not scared of anything. I am simply pointing out to you, brother that you are setting a precedent that no other Lord Paramount would tolerate, one that might be used by some descendants of yours unworthy to carry your war hammer for their own gain like _Aerys_ did.”  
  
 _That did the trick._  
  
Robert turned and faced him directly, his eyes narrowed and he asked, “And what would you have me do?”  
  
Stannis spoke calmly and rationally, “Respect and honor that the Lords Paramount will do your name justice and if they should not do so then bring them before you to answer for their crimes. Don’t set a dangerous precedent that might later be used as an excuse to bring an end to the dynasty you establish today.”  
  
Robert approached him, questioning, “And how would I go about respecting your ability to do justice in my name? If I remember rightly, after the siege you burned the food that Tyrell left forcing our people to starve for nothing, and bloody well tried to have Ned arrest a man who was trying to help you. Was all that justice?”  
  
Stannis could not help from clenching his teeth then—his own silent fury being stoked by his brother’s more boisterous one, but he as he ground them he forced himself to speak through it. He could not give in to his fury now—Robert would dismiss him as raving and discount anything he had to say.  
  
Through his teeth he stated as calmly as he could allow himself, “What would be respecting the power of your Lords Paramount would be to let me propose the project take place at my command and oversee it myself. You can still finance the rebuilding—though I will see to it that Storm’s End will contribute its own share as well—but the project should be done under my direction if it is to be for a bannerman of my own.”  
  
“Oh, so I will pay all the costs, while you take all the credit then, eh?” asked Robert darkly.  
  
  
“Credit would go where it was due for the gold spent on the project. But I would design this new hall for our brother myself. I would hire the men, I would see that construction was being done correctly, and I’d see that he would receive enough knightly houses sworn to him.”  
  
“Mayhaps a few of those Reachmen who are so eager to settle in the Westerlands might be persuaded to come and be bannermen for our brother?” suggested Robert.  
  
The very idea of Reachmen settling in the Stormlands was just too much, too much to bear the thought of. Not after that siege.  
  
“I’ll have no Reachmen settling in the Stormlands as long as I am its Lord Paramount!” proclaimed Stannis.  
  
“If they become our brother’s knights they’d cease to be Reachmen, now wouldn’t they?Oh don’t look so sour, Stannis, it’s ill becoming of you,” said Robert pointedly, an odd look crossing his face.  
  
“What does it matter how I look?” Stannis asked, confused as to why Robert would mention that.  
  
Robert continued, “Your future wife will care a great deal—whomever she might be.”  
  
Stannis stared at his brother, confused as to why he’d change the topics so suddenly, but it seemed to be something Robert would prefer to speak on for the moment, so Stannis let him, hoping to catch him in a better mood to pin down that what they’d discussed so far about Summerhall would be put into practice.  
  
“You’re a very eligible bachelor. I’ve had two proposals for your hand already,” teased Robert as he then began to walk towards the exit of the chamber to a corridor that would lead to a stairwell down to the gardens.  
  
“Why have they not come to me?” asked Stannis, knowing he couldn’t well keep his brother in a good mood to confirm what had been discussed by staying behind.  
  
Robert let the question dangle in the air for a bit while they walked the corridor, eventually saying, “While you may be a Lord Paramount now, I am still the head of our family, so they come to me as they would to our father.”  
  
“Who are these women?” asked Stannis as they reached the stairwell that led down to the gardens of the Red Keep.  
  
Taking off down the steps at a tremendous speed, Robert called out, “Lady Lannister and Lady Tyrell.”  
  
Stannis did not immediately follow his brother, as he stood shocked at the top of the steps for a few moments. Was he then to marry a traitor’s daughter? Be it either Lannister or Tyrell, they were both traitors in Stannis’ eyes.  
  
Noticing Robert was nearly at the foot of the steps by this point, he took off after his brother, calling out after him, “I will not even consider Lady Tyrell.”  
  
At this point Robert reached the bottom of the steps, turned and caught his eye and said, “I’d uh… speak with her first if I were you. You might have a different opinion on the matter.”  
  
“Nothing could conceivably convince me to marry the sister to the man who would have seen Renly and I to starve to death only but a year ago.”  
  
“So Lady Lannister then?” asked Robert with a decided frown as Stannis reached him.  
  
“I like the prospect of her even less, considering her father plotted to have you wed to her through treachery. Who’s to say that his daughter doesn’t take after him?” asked Stannis.  
  
At this Robert frowned further and exited out into the gardens, and Stannis forced himself to follow.  
  
Robert finally responded with, “It must be one or the other, brother.”  
  
“I might be so good as to choose a wife of my own,” countered Stannis.  
  
“If you can find a woman willing to bear your teeth clenching, I might just let you,” teased Robert as he continued to walk purposefully through the gardens a few steps ahead of Stannis.  
  
Robert continued, “But putting that aside, I doubt you’d find a woman you could tolerate to marry and could tolerate to marry you, so that leaves you with the women who want to marry you, brother—and that brings us to these two fine ladies.”  
  
Upon catching sight of Ladies Lannister and Tyrell strolling some distance across the gardens, but still in sight, Stannis felt his brother had planned this meeting purposefully.  
  
“I will not speak to them!” proclaimed Stannis.  
  
“You will speak to them because it’s your duty to our house to see that it continues to flourish, unless of course you’d rather Renly be Lord of two castles?” offered Robert.  
  
“And Summerhall?” asked Stannis, knowing he had to nail Robert down now--not later.  
  
  
Robert seemed to pantomime considering it for a moment before saying, “We’ll do as you suggest, if you go and speak to those two women and be as… well, charming as you can be.”  
  
Stannis thought for a moment then seeing it a little price to pay for seeing that the proper order of things was maintained he nodded his head in agreement. Robert grinned and slapped him on the shoulders with his big meaty hand.  
  
“That’s the spirit!” his kingly brother said just before turning to take his leave.  
  
“What makes you so sure that I’d be unable to find a woman to marry me that isn’t either of them?” asked Stannis pointedly before he had walked too far off.  
  
Robert stopped and turned to face him, saying, “I wish you luck doing so, but knowing how few friends you make, I seriously doubt it.”  
  
Stannis clenched his teeth and snorted through his nose. That was going too far—and he would have said as much, if something hadn’t distracted him from doing so just at that moment.  
  
“My Lord Baratheon?” called a feminine voice from not too far off.  
  
  
Stannis turned to see the ladies had taken notice of his presence and were approaching him. Stannis froze. He knew not what to make of this situation. What was he to say to these traitors’ daughters?  
  
Thankfully Lady Lannister seemed preoccupied with some other concern, asking immediately if he had been speaking with the King. After confirming that he had, the Westerland woman excused herself and left in the direction his brother had departed in.  
  
She’s not even subtle about it. She’ll try right up until the day of the wedding.  
  
This left Stannis with Lady Jana Tyrell, the unmarried sister of the fat flower. If Stannis was being honest, she was quite… well, endowed, which complemented her soft curves and curly brown hair. His brother may have called her “buxom”, but even still, Stannis would not let that influence him. Her brother had reveled in eating feasts while he had starved.  
  
“It is a rather cool day, is it not?” asked Lady Jana with a small smile no doubt aimed to tempt him.  
  
“Aye, it is,” he responded. He would not have it said that he was rude, after all.  
  
She continued with overt sweetness, “You must forgive my stares, my lord, but I have wondered ever since my brother returned from the siege what exactly it was that made him flee from you? Now I see that you have an… indomitable sense of presence—why you might be able to stare down the Stranger himself.”  
  
He had to admit she was rather direct. He would be equally with her. Stannis replied, “One evening he was outside my walls, the next morning he was gone.”  
  
Jana once again smiled and twisting her head a bit and flitted her hair so that it no longer hid part of her curvy bosom. She was trying far too hard if he was noticing her intended lures.  
  
“And what did you think of my brother’s cowardice?” she asked.  
  
Stannis gritted his teeth. He liked this tactic of hers very little. She could at least show some sense of family pride and unity—that he could respect, even if it was for a family of traitors.  
  
  
The conversation continued for a stilted period until at long last the lady gave up and came up with some excuse of needing to see to her mother’s needs.  
  
Stannis avoided Robert for the rest of the day—not needing to have his brother attempt to force him to chose between the two women apparently so interested in his hand—having his dinner sent to his room rather than suffer sitting through an evening meal with his brother and the Starks. Instead he spent his time writing a letter to send to Renly—something that Robert did not do whatsoever—telling him when he expected to return to Storm’s End along with all the other usual family affections. The following day came the wedding, which gave Stannis much excuse to avoid speaking privately with Robert for the rest of the day.  
  
After a rather eccentric ceremony in the godswood which featured an uncomfortable High Septon standing before the great Oak that stood at the center of it, the wedding feast began. Stannis absolutely hated feasts. Robert of course loved them, but Stannis had never seen the need for one. To invite people into one’s home for the excuse to become embarrassingly drunk, to serve an excess of food one could not possibly consume all of and thus ended up wasting more than eating, in addition to the numerous other offenses such as rude guests that were to be had, Stannis could not abide a feast. The issue of rude guests especially riled him, for Robert may be a bit too drunken and loud, but he was the king and as such due a certain respect that the one woman had only mockingly bestowed—leaving abruptly with a shallow curtsy from congratulating his brother. That mockery Stannis could not allow, and so after the blond haired and blue eyed woman with sharp angular features had taken her seat, Stannis rose from his and approached her.  
  
Though they were not introduced, he could tell from the green and black colors of her dress, in addition to the embroidered symbol of a broken wheel decorated upon that dress, that she were a Waynwood—a Valeswoman. Stannis felt his blood boil further—a Valeswoman most especially knew the proper rules and decorum that needed to be observed to a King. That she had not done so, indicated all the more that the slight was intentional.  
  
He ground his teeth for a moment before speaking. “My lady,” he said gravely, catching her attention.  
  
She turned from the goblet she had been drinking from and noticed his presence. She swallowed what wine she had been drinking and meeting his eyes, said, “My Lord Baratheon, I presume?”  
  
He nodded his head curtly and then continued, “I know we have not been introduced, but I cannot hold my tongue after what I have just seen.”  
  
With an odd tone, she asked, “Oh? And what exactly did you just see?”  
  
Stannis felt his teeth clench before he spoke, “Do not jape with me my lady. You strike me as a fairly intelligent woman, it would do you little credit to play down that intelligence.”  
  
She seemed taken aback by his comment, and then mockingly said, “Intelligence?! Such a rare compliment indeed! A woman may expect a comment on their beauty, her heart, or her fitness for childbearing, but rarely or never is her intelligence complimented! What an odd Stag are you to take notice of my intelligence!”  
  
His teeth were grinding before he darkly fumed, “You answer not my question, _my lady_.”  
  
“Mayhaps because I make it a rule not to answer rude and impertinent young men who believe themselves more important than they are.”  
  
He could not contain himself.  
  
“Rude?! Impertinent!”  
  
She smiled wickedly at his outburst, causing him to regain some control over himself.  
  
He continued, trying to recover his footing by saying, “My lady, I doubt you know the very meaning of the words.”  
  
“And yet you _deem_ meintelligent. Do please make up your mind one way or the other, I am afraid that I cannot do so for you.”  
  
She had a very loose tongue that needed to be tied down. He said, “First you slight our King and then a Lord Paramount. By rights you should be made to answer for your impudence!”  
  
“And you, my _lord_ , are speaking to the heir to the Vale, should my goodbrother have the sense to die soon enough. You are a high lord, and I a high lord’s granddaughter—so far we are equal,” countered the lady.  
  
“But equal to the King you are not, and that is why I’ve sought you out,” said Stannis, hoping that by returning to the original point he could win.  
  
She sighed and said, “So you’ve told me, that I’ve been rude. Fine, bring me before the King and I shall beg his pardon, but first, my lord, you must beg mine.”  
  
“If you were a man…” he began before stopping himself. It would do no good to threaten her.  
  
She finished for him by saying, “If I were a man, my false goodbrother would never have inherited a seat he does not deserve and the Vale might actually have a lord honorable enough to do it justice. But I am not a man, and suggesting other worlds where I was born as one is a futile game.”  
  
“He was your uncle’s heir, how does an heir not deserve what is by rights, his?” asked Stannis despite himself.  
  
Taking a sip from her wind she commented, “He only inherited the lordship by his marrying my sister and having a son by her—who was the true heir to the Vale. And yet he remains lord even after their deaths—deaths for which he does not even grieve I suspect.”  
  
Stannis admitted, “That is an understandable thing to take offense to. Were my recent goodsister to show such… callousness to my brother’s death… I would think her ill deserving as well,” admitted Stannis, to which the Lady caught his eye once again.  
  
“My Lord Baratheon, while you might be rude, you at least have some sense of honor and justice, which is more than I can say for the majority of men,” stated the Lady with an odd smile.  
  
Stannis continued his conversation with the rude Lady Waynwood, speaking on matters of honor and only realizing after the Bear and the Maiden Fair had finished that they had spent the majority of the feast conversing with one another. And what was further shocking to Stannis was that he had actually enjoyed the experience. As such the following day he found her in her chambers sewing together pieces of motely colored cloth and apologized for speaking without having been properly introduced before hand. Lady Lorra—for that was her name—then kindly repaid him by setting out with him to find his brother—during which they walked all over the castle and had further opportunity to discuss other subjects beyond honor, which oddly enough, Stannis found rather easy to speak with her on, such as their families and and siblings. By the time they had found Robert and she had apologized for giving offense, Stannis was quite sad to contemplate losing his pretense to continue speaking with her—so he asked if he may have the honor of meeting with her again to take a walk about the castle grounds, to which Lady Lorra had simply taken his arm—which he had not offered at that moment—and asked “Why wait?”  
  
 _Why wait indeed._


	18. Elia

**ELIA**  
  
She had agreed to meet with the she-wolf for Rhaenys’ sake. That is what she told herself at least as she sat and smiled at the woman—the one that Rhaegar had started all this madness over. Up close she did not look so pretty, she seemed rather awkward about her social graces, and had a tendency to bite her lip like a young girl might. On the whole Elia saw before her in the private inner chambers of the new Queen’s compartments was not a rival woman, but the fourteen nameday child Rhaegar had crowned at Harrenhal as the Queen of Love and Beauty over her. She might be three namedays older since then, but a child she still very much was, to Elia.  
  
By the Seven I pray she was worth Aegon’s life, Rhaegar, or I’ll wish you in the deepest of all the Seven Hells!  
  
Elia took a long sip from her wine as she listened to her goodmother speak with the she-wolf. The Queen Dowager, Seven bless her, had managed almost the entire visit to find something to speak with the new Queen about. Elia knew she had to say something, she had wanted to speak with the she-wolf before coming, but now sitting here before the she-wolf, Elia could not find the words to speak. She tried to interject some thoughts if only to not seem rude, but for the life of herself she could not find it in herself to speak to the woman. So the new Queen and the Queen Dowager chattered away instead about the coronation to come.  
  
“Do you know what your crown will look like, my dear?” asked Rhaella good naturedly.  
  
“When Robert asked me said he spoke with Ned about the crowns the Starks used to wear before Torrhen bent the knee. I told him that a simple bronze band traditional to my house would be more than enough,” said the she-wolf simply.  
  
“So simple? My how I envy you! Aerys did not even ask me what I wanted. He simply told the goldsmith and jeweler what to make and I was to accept it. I myself might have preferred a crown without as many gems, but Aerys always had a taste for the gaudy and bold. As a child he always desired the most flashy things, it mattered not what it was, if it shone as the sun he simply had to have it. I fought with him over the possession of a shiny copper piece once—if you can believe that of me. He of course bullied me into having it in the end, but I had fought him that time…”  
  
“I did not mean to cause you to dwell on any upsetting memories,” insisted Lyanna.  
  
“Not all memories involving my mad brother were upsetting, your grace. There were a few years even when I thought he had calmed down after the birth of Rhaegar. He was at ease having fulfilled his promise to our grandfather to see that a child of our line was born for the prophesy. Rhaegar then was quite young and sweet yet… Summerhall was increasingly behind us… Tywin and Aerys were still friendly… and then Rhaegar heard of the prophesy himself. Things began to change after that… then I gave birth to Viserys instead of a daughter to marry Rhaegar, then Aerys heard of that damned eunuch from Pentos who filled his head with lies, and then finally Aerys went to Duskendale… he was never the same after Duskendale. Those latter times were the upsetting memories your grace, and I thank both the Old and the New Gods that they are now past us.”  
  
The wolf-Queen was silent after this, seeming not to know what to make of it. But then she looked directly at Rhaella and asked, “Has every Targaryen been obsessed with that prophesy?”  
  
She mentioned the prophesy oddly, as though she knew very well what it was, and so Elia felt compelled to ask, “You know of what the prophesy speaks?”  
  
At this, the she-wolf’s eyes widened, as though she had not meant to reveal that. But at long last she recovered from that and admitted, “In the last few months… it was all _he_ could speak about…”  
  
And suddenly Elia realized that the true subject of which she wanted to speak with the she-wolf on was not Rhaenys, but Rhaegar. Was the prophesy truly why he had abandoned her and their children to Aerys’ mercy? Had he truly kidnapped her, or had he loved this she-wolf more than her?  
  
But before Elia could get the chance to ask any of these question, Rhaella said, “Forgive me, but I must know one thing. You are the closest I have to the last person who spoke with my son… and I need to know if in the end he… he truly was like his father… if he ever… forced himself upon you, as it is whispered. Tell me the truth, no matter how hard.”  
  
With some great apparent difficulty, Elia saw the she-wolf meet Rhaella’s gaze and say quite honestly, “In the last few months the only words I had with him were his rantings on the prophesy as he had his way with my body.”  
  
At this news Rhaella began to shake, causing both the she-wolf and Elia to share a worried expression. And then the Queen Dowager burst into tears and moans unlike anything Elia had ever seen from the normally calm, collected, and controlled Rhaella.  
  
“No, no, no, no, no, no!” moaned Rhaella through her tears.  
  
Elia had tried to comfort Rhaella at this, but she was rebuffed as Rhaella continued in a near rage that Elia had never before seen from the placid Queen, “Damn Aemon! May he be sent to the deepest of the Seven Hells when he dies! May he know the anguish I feel now for all eternity and suffer like I have! Damn his hide for not taking the throne! Damn him for going to the Wall! Damn him for filling my grandfather’s head with the prophesy! Damn him for stealing my son from me! Damn him!”  
  
“My goodmother,” Elia managed to croak before geing interrupted by the Queen Dowager.  
  
“Rhaegar had been a sweet and loving babe before Aemon began sending him letters… I held him here in my arms and loved his smiles. In these arms… but in the end he became the monster his father was…”  
  
“Your grace—” began the young Queen.  
  
“I have some advice, your grace, as one Queen to another!” declared Rhaella, with a will made strong by whatever fire she’d discovered in that instant.  
  
She continued, using that passionate flame to help her speak, “Don’t trust your children with anyone. Trust them not with their tutors, trust them not with their cousins, trust them not with great uncles at the Wall, trust them not with their uncles, and most of all trust them not with their father. If you want to keep your children, do not ever let them out of your sight! Trust no one… not even me, for we will take your children and turn them into monsters given the chance… the whole world will conspire against you… so trust no one.”  
  
After having said her say, Rhaella after a few deep breaths seemed to slowly begin regaining control of herself in the silence of the room. The she-wolf was still stunned, and Elia felt as if she could say nothing else after that.  
  
“With your leave, your grace, I would beg to retire to my chambers, I am afraid that I am not feeling particularly well,” said Rhaella as she stood.  
  
Dumbly the she-wolf gave her permission. Elia had wanted to leave as well to help her goodmother, but Rhaella dismissed the notion, stating that she and the she-wolf had much to speak on. And so the Queen Dowager gathered her ladies in waiting from the outer chamber and departed, leaving Elia and the she-wolf to speak no more on Rhaegar, but instead about Rhaenys, the quality of the tutors in the Red Keep, how the she-wolf was adjusting to the Red Keep, the scandalous teachings being suggested by Septon Whytclyff at the Stony Sept, and a million other subjects which all felt considerably trivial compared to what Rhaella had said before leaving, and they both knew it.


	19. Catelyn II

**CATELYN**  
  
After the King and Queen had been given over to their bed chambers, the feast seemed reluctant to die down just yet. Minstrels continued to play and several people were still dancing. Catelyn so wanted to join them. She had danced with her father and a few of his and her husband’s loyal bannermen, but beyond them she had not had the opportunity to dance that much at this feast. Ned was not fond of dancing—in fact he was quite terrible at it as she recalled the few stubbed toes she had gone to their bedding with from the one dance he had danced with her on their wedding night. So for his sake she had been refusing most partners, but not all. However what surprised Catelyn now was that when a break between songs occurred that Ned did look at her and asked, “Would you care to dance, Cat?”  
  
Before she had had a chance to reply, Catelyn found her hand had been taken by Ned who led her to the dance floor stoically but with a hint of something in his eyes, for the first time that evening. She braced her toes for what she felt was to be a repeat of her wedding night.  
  
He’s waited until after the King and Queen have retired… so that he does not have to be so embarrassed.  
  
When the music began to play, Cat had not known what to expect as it appeared something had changed about her husband. While Ned no longer seemed to be the toe-stepping clumsy man she had married anymore, he also wasn’t as graceful a dancer as she had seen her goodbrother, Denys, with Lysa earlier in the evening. Now he seemed to have grasped a few basic steps that he must have practiced somehow.  
  
“Either my eyes deceive me, or you have been practicing, Ned,” said Cat.  
  
His face remained as stoic as it e’er had, but now Cat saw something glimmer once again in his eyes...something like delight.  
  
“Good. I’ve spent half my time in this ruddy city with a tutor, I would hate to think I wasted both our time and money on the effort.”  
  
No wonder he had been so absent so frequently since they had arrived at the city. She had at first thought it was all the council meetings, but then she had noticed Denys and Lysa were often together when he was not in a council meeting, while Ned had still remained absent. She had thought for a brief moment that mayhaps… no… that clearly was not possible, now.  
  
“I fear my tutor says that I shall only ever be an adequate student,” added Ned, with a whisper to her ear.  
  
It took Catelyn a moment to see past his serious expression to see the hint of a jape. Upon the realization of which she smiled and her husband’s grasp on her hand tightened.  
  
“Adequate indeed. I’m afraid that should you prove any less so, then I shall simply have to refuse to continue dancing with you,” she japed with a smile.  
  
He too seemed to take a moment before realizing her intentions by which time they had rejoined one another after having separated to move about the line of dancers as the dance required. Just to be sure that he understood her, she added as they joined hands and held them up as part of the bridge through which other couples had to run under, “Thank you, Ned. I know how little you care for dancing.”  
  
“I would not deny you the pleasure of an activity you enjoy so much, Cat,” he responded after they had themselves run under the bridge of hands.  
  
The bridge then split off into pairings for the rest of the dance an so Catelyn found herself able to continue, by asking, “So you’ve spent much of your time with this tutor?”  
  
He replied simply, “Aye, as well as attending council meetings, and speaking with your father.”  
  
“And what did my father wish to speak with you about?” asked Catelyn.  
  
He seemed to dwell on his response for a long time before replying, “On a subject I would care not to discuss now, less I disturb your enjoyment of the dance.”  
  
But despite Ned’s attempt at sparing her, she knew immediately what he meant the next moment.  
  
 _Father has heard of Jon Snow._  
  
Now that Catelyn thought on it, since coming to the capital she had not really given much consideration to her husband’s bastard, nor had the topic popped up in conversation between them for some time. On one hand she realized that she had hoped to have put the matter behind them—their conversations had not included the boy for several months as they had been too caught up in getting to know each other—but yet again were they to be pulled through the mire of this subject. Truly she grew tired of speaking and thinking on it, but apparently others were not as exhausted as she.  
  
Although she knew of Stark tradition and had come to see how close Robb had grown to Jon in the time between her acceptance of him and the time they had left to journey for the wedding, she knew others—especially Father—did not. She now knew that Jon was not kept at Winterfell as a public shaming to her ability as a wife, but no one in the South—well, except for the Dornish whom the boy shared his blood with—would not see it that way at all. As she continued to think on the subject she realized that she had already entered several chambers during her time here in the Red Keep only to hear voices quiet and a few heads turn her way with looks of pity painted as their countenance. No one had yet spoken to her directly of the issue, but that Catelyn now realized was only a matter of time.  
  
 _You should not care for the thoughts of others._  
  
 _You will care no matter what you do, accept that._  
  
Her conflicted thoughts on the matter must have shown on her face for after the dance had finished, Ned leaned in and spoke quite low and tired sigh, “Come and let us speak on the matter.”  
  
They then meandered out of the hall and onto a terrace overlooking the Red Keep’s gardens that was connected to an unused side chamber used during this feast for the storage of cloaks, off of the hall. The moon was a quarter filled and smiled down upon them in a pleasant manner. If she strained to listen, Catelyn could still hear the music from the hall in the distance.  
  
Ned gripped the stone guardrail and said, “Your father asked me what I planned to do for Jon.”  
  
Catelyn approached him and leaning against the stone guardrail, asked, “And what did you say?”  
  
“That I had not yet considered what to do with a child of my blood beyond seeing that he grows up to be a loyal brother to my heir.”  
  
Well that was well said, at least.  
  
“He then offered to have Jon fostered in Riverrun and eventually squired to your uncle.”  
  
“He offered that?!” exclaimed Catelyn.  
  
  
  
Ned looked at her reassuringly, saying, “I think he meant to shield you Cat, from any further comments or shame, in his own way… Family, Duty, Honor… I told him that that would defeat the purpose of Jon growing up to be loyal to Robb.”  
  
She reminded him, “A knighthood though would be…advantageous for Jon. Upon being knighted, he could choose a name for himself beyond Snow.”  
  
 _A name that isn’t Stark… or at least not wholly Stark._  
  
“Or he could choose to join the Night’s Watch as many a Snow has done before… or he could wish to learn of his mother’s family for a few years. Ash—she had wanted to raise him herself after all. Mayhaps he might even want to try to be the next Sword of the Morning.”  
  
“Has Arthur Dayne died?” she questioned immediately.  
  
  
“No, his brother stripped him of the sword… so it now awaits the next person of Dayne blood to prove themselves worthy to wield it.”  
  
And suddenly the thought occurred to Catelyn… if Jon became the next Sword of the Morning—such a prestigious title—and used such skills, mayhaps he could protect Robb with Dawn? For one thing was clear, to be worthy of the Dayne family’s sword, one had not only to be a skilled warrior, but also a true and honorable knight. If Jon could do that… then should Robb ever encounter any trouble from his bannermen, he would have a loyal and proven honorable brother to defend him from any challenges from the less loyal houses of the North that traditionally challenged the Starks for power every few centuries… like the Boltons.  
  
“He would still require a knighthood to be the next Sword of the Morning,” reminded Catelyn—though the title and the sword both were rumored to be older than the tradition of knighthood in Westeros, she considered briefly. If legends were true, both the sword and House Dayne were older than the 8,000 year old House Stark. To achieve such an ancient and longstanding honor—why that would prove beyond a doubt to the entire South that Jon was worthy of all the attention her husband was giving him.  
  
“Or he might not care for his mother’s family at all. He might just wish to have a keep somewhere in the Wolfswood and be a loyal bannerman to Robb. Or he could be a sworn shield to a daughter we might have. He could be like my grandfather Rodrik and be a sellsword. He could desire to go to Oldtown and become a Maester. Or he could become a knight and be one of Robert’s Kingsguard to guard Lyanna when Ser Barristan dies. Or he could alternatively be another bannerman for Benjen to have to help develop the Stony Shore. Truth is, how can I plan for Jon’s future and make the choice for him, when as a bastard he has the one luxury a lord and his children does not have—the freedom to choose. How could I take that away from him?”  
  
And suddenly she saw something in her husband’s sense of self that she’d only seen hints at before, but now seemed as plain as day. Just to be sure she asked, “Freedom to choose like you had taken away from you with Brandon’s death?”  
  
Ned was silent at that, and Catelyn knew that when he went silent as such she usually had hit the mark. So she pressed on. “Say Brandon still lived, that the war never happened, that he never went to King’s Landing demanding for Rhaegar to come out and die, that Lyanna had never been taken by Rhaegar, that your father had never sent her to Harrenhal in the first place. What would you have chosen?”  
  
“I was just barely older than a boy at Harrenhal. I know better now.”  
  
“And that was only two, three years hence. Still, what would have been the life you would have chosen.”  
  
“At the time I did not have a choice. Father had told me that I was needed to carry on the family line—to find a wife and give him two grandsons. He’d give me a keep with some land and a few smallfolk to look after, and I would get to choose my wife. Second sons have not the freedom you imagine, especially when our family line has been in decline.”  
  
“But you still had some choice in it. I know you did not choose me Ned. You did your duty and married me to honor the agreement made between our fathers. And I’m not such a great fool to know that my father’s armies being yours did not also play a part in your decision to wed me. But do you regret having the choice taken from you?”  
  
As he spoke he gripped her hand and brought it up and kissed it. “It wasn’t taken from me. A new choice was put before me. One that knowing everything I know now I’d willingly make again.”  
  
It was now Catelyn’s turn to be silent as she admitted to herself that she had indeed been looking for some kind of assurance, and was rather pleased to have received it in such an intimate manner. She responded by nuzzling closer to him, enjoying the warmth that came from his body in the cool night air. As she did so she felt a certain desire stir in her as she wrapped her arms around Ned’s body. It was not as impressive as Brandon’s had been, but it was nothing to disregard either. And with the only layer between his body and hers being his doublet with that damned annoying silver pin upon it, Catelyn began to want the doublet taken off and left aside.  
  
They would later return to the hall to dance a few times more, and afterwards he would escort her to her chambers, at which juncture, thinking on what Lyanna had said earlier that evening, she decided to test something as he was about to pull his arm from hers.  
  
She said, “My bed is yours by right, Ned, should you want it.”  
  
At this she saw her husband’s placid face froze.  
  
He finally managed to spit out, “Cat, I… I would have you want me to be there."  
  
  
“I would not remind you, if the thought did not please me,” replied Cat with a smile. She saw confusion flash through his eyes for an instant and then vanish. In a way teasing him like this was beginning to become quite fun.  
  
“But if you do not find pleasure in it then—” she never got a chance to finish her jape as his mouth met hers. Lyanna, Catelyn realized, had been right, and with the way Ned kissed her—fiercely but still tenderly—she could easily forget that he had once wanted another before her. He wanted her now, he wanted to please her and she him—and that was all that mattered.  
  
The remaining weeks that they spent in King’s Landing were spent in her chambers—his own becoming quickly abandoned the one time they did try to have each other in there—if only for variety. Each time became more fulfilling than the last, a certain wildness having been born from the long denial of such urges since their wedding night. Some time over the course of those weeks, she knew not when, but just that it had happened while they were in King’s Landing, she once again was gotten with child. Again did she go through the moons of having her body swell out of proportion with itself, only this time she had Ned with her the entire time—fretting over the littlest things and seeing her every comfort or demand was met.  
  
When at long last she had taken to her confinement, Ned made a purpose to visit her—despite it being against tradition, bringing Robb to visit her. He had grown a full head of auburn hair that was beginning to curl, and his wide blue eyes—just like hers—were curious and bright. Robb spoke a lot in comparison to what both Den and Jon Snow had said at his age. Den and Jon had just begun to talk cohesively and Robb it seemed was eager to stay in step with them by shouting and saying as many words he knew how to say whenever he felt like saying them. When he was being held in her arms, Mama, of course his favorite word to say, but then he also had a particular fondness for “wolf”, “snow”, and “sea” as well—which were words he had somehow come to associate with his half-brother and his father’s wards about his age, Den and Jeyne. She heard tales from Ned upon these visits how Den and Jon had only just discovered Jeyne’s presence in the nursery for the first time—though having shared it for well over a year now. It only seemed to dawn on them that yet another babe about their age was there—or at least it seemed so to Ned. The girl was a solitary babe from what Catelyn knew of her—just as happy alone as she was to be held. Where Robb delighted in attention being given to him—not only from herself and Ned but also Den and Jon—Jeyne it seemed did not need as much attention or was more willing to wait to receive it, and so remained in the shadows of the nursery, quiet and unobtrusive.  
  
When the babe was finally born—a boy—the trouble of what to name him came to the forefront. Catelyn had suggested naming any additional boys they had had after Ned’s father and brother to honor their memories and with the hope that such a plan would please him. They decided upon honoring his father’s memory first since there were enough Brandon Starks in honor of the founding father of the family in its eight thousand year history. Rickard first, and should they have another son, Cat figured, he would be Brandon. While Ned had agreed to this plan, he later admitted that naming a child exactly for his father would have been too much to handle for him. Luckily the eight thousand year old family tree was full of permutations of Rickard, and eventually the name of Rickon was settled upon for Robb’s first full-blooded brother, who like his elder brother also grew to settle into the Tully features of auburn hair and blue eyes.  
  
Jon and Den were introduced to the newest member of the Stark pack. Jon in the beginning seemed at first to confuse Rickon for Robb, and asked how Robb had gotten so small one of the times. Ned of course had explained that this was not Robb but his newest brother Rickon—but the thought it seemed did not sink in until Rickon’s screams became the determining difference between which was Rickon and which was Robb. Meanwhile Den, whose Valyrian features grew more prominent with age, during these visits stared at how Jon and Rickon interacted with an odd look. Den did not take any interest in Rickon, but instead seemed to try to wholly ignore him. It wasn’t until much later that Catelyn realized that the child—for Den was now nearly four—was likely jealous that yet another brother for Jon and Robb was acquired.  
  
Little Rickon was tempestuous and loud—that was the first thing Catelyn had noticed. While his birthing had been quite easy, he had rarely stopped screaming since then except for when he was held by her. Where Robb had been an easy babe, quick with a smile though greedy at her breast, Rickon was fussy and obstinate, demanding to be fed at certain times—not whenever it was convenient like Robb had been. Quickly Catelyn felt her life become determined by the will of her “little king” as she liked to mentally call him. Her life now had to adjust to his schedule, and should she disturb his plans—woe be to her to try and get a good night’s sleep. Ned almost took to returning to his chambers, and she had half the mind to join him on those nights—though she knew she never could abandon Rickon.  
  
“Mayhaps we should have named him for my brother after all,” Ned one night admitted to her in a whisper to her ear as he held her close to his body, after Rickon had fallen asleep at long last.  
  
“Why is that?” she whispered back.  
  
Ned expounded, “He has the wolf’s blood in him—just like Brandon had, and Lya has. I will have to keep my eyes on him much more than I ever will on Robb and Jon, or even Den and Jeyne. If he were older, I’d fear that he, Theon, and Raynald would make for a terrible trio to our poor servants.”  
  
“Wolf’s blood?” queried Catelyn.  
  
“Aye, the Stark curse, one could call it—it’s led as many Starks to greatness as it has my brother to folly. He’ll never be satisfied with anything…”  
  
“If that’s the only qualification for having wolf’s blood, then I’d say his father has a healthy dose of it as well,” teased Catelyn, and further conversation about their children ceased at that moment for the remainder of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I finally reveal the second largest reason for wanting to write this idea. I wanted to write a series which diverged from canon events during Robert's Rebellion from a point of departure that got little exploration typically. I also wanted to explore a few alternate fan theories than the generally accepted ones, (such as N+A=J) because I'm attracted to exploring the possibilities of what alternate theories on the different mysteries of canon are (I actually find doing so gives me a reasonable expectation of what is likely true in canon, and it's also nice to have some fresh and new element in each of my stories). 
> 
> But most of all, I was eager to explore putting the younger Starks in a different birth order. Part of it was a critique against time lines on AH.com which don't factor that because of one time line change at a certain point occurs that such things as people not being born, or being completely different people are likely to occur. When I expressed this critique I was given an answer back that readers care for the established characters more typically than they do for Original characters--which is what exploring that notion to its fullest extent would theoretically create. So I was told that the authors of other time lines that they chose to put "butterfly nets" around a few selected characters to keep the Butterfly Effect from affecting them and keep people interested in reading. This to me was understandable but I felt that there could be yet another way to achieve that while honoring the fact that things such as who is born or raised differently appear due to time line changes. So I came up with the idea of mixing up the birth order of our favorite Starks in order to reflect that "some changes have occurred" while preserving characters we know and love for the readers to keep following. It's a bit of an experiment also to see how a different birth order of the four youngest would change their relationships with Robb and Jon as well as affect them as they grow up. So Rickon is now born even earlier than Sansa originally was. Let's see how an older Rickon evolves as a character, as well as all the other Starks to come (though I will admit I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet). So do please enjoy the ride from here on out. I'm looking forward to traveling it with you all.


	20. Tyrion

  
**TYRION**

_Everyone in the Westerlands will be married!_

_And what if they do not wish for that, my lord?_

He mulled over Master Arthur’s words for quite some time after he and Uncle Stafford had left Clegane’s Keep. They teased and prodded him, mocking him in a way. Not everyone would be happy to marry like Uncle Stafford had said they would, well this was true enough given young Clegane’s reaction to his own young wife, but they would see with time the benefits of the marriage surely, right? After all, how were they to keep the greedy Reachmen and Riverlanders out if they had not enough lords to see after the lands? The King had sent his uncle a few knights for the task and his Uncle was seeing to that side—the side Tyrion knew he could not help with, the fighting, and for the large part the Reach and Riverlanders had been pushed back, but what was to keep them away if they failed to people the land with smallfolk and lords. Getting the smallfolk to regenerate had been the easy part, promising a Silver Stag for each child that a family had for the next ten years would suffice—but the lords? Lords would not have children unless they were married—well they’d have children otherwise, but Tyrion agreed with his uncle that no one would tolerate legitimizing a generation of noble bastards… but it was nearly down to that.

“We could raise a few knights to masterly level houses, nuncle,” he had suggested.

“We’ve done that where we could, leaving all the squires to be knighted and take their places as new knightly houses. Don’t fret about this problem, by the time you come of age, I’ll have sorted out all these problems for you. Why don’t you and Ser Gareth go and discuss ships like you said you wanted. A curious mind is a healthy one,” his uncle had encouraged.

And thus Tyrion found himself here sitting with Ser Gareth Clifton—as he was the last Clifton left alive, and had yet found a woman to marry for some reason that struck Tyrion as odd. Tyrion was left to reading tomes of books he’d already skimmed through last night in preparation for discussing with Ser Gareth, only to find that Lord Gared knew more about maneuvering a horse than he did a ship.

Growing tired of the activity at hand he asked Ser Gareth, “Mayhaps you could help me train my horse?”

The knight with hair of a muddy brown color and a long droopy mustache—the ends of which hung down to the edge of his jaw, looked up from his otherwise finger tapping boredom and with a distinct raise of his right eyebrow asked, “You can ride a horse, my lord? I would have thought a pony more… appropriate.”

_Given my size? How am I to be Lord of the Westerlands if I always ride a pony like a child?_

Tyrion raised himself in his padded seat a bit so that he sat higher than normal and said, “I designed my own saddle.

“You designed a saddle?!” exclaimed Ser Gareth with amazement.

“Of course. I wanted to ride a horse, and people said that it could not be done, so I figured out a way that I could. Is there something wrong?” asked Tyrion with a purposeful look.

“No, my lord, but… forgive me, but you are—” began Ser Gareth

“—a dwarf? Imp? Vile beast?” Tyrion spat as he repeated Cersei’s favorite names for himself.

“You are but young, my lord. You are but one and ten or nearly two and ten namedays old, are you not?” 

 

  
_He’s overestimating… but rather to be older than younger…_

“Oh…” was Tyrion’s reply, before he recovered and retorted “My brother Jaime learned to ride a horse at eight.” Tyrion liked to compare himself to Jaime—the White-Gold Lion of the West, some were calling him—well some who weren’t Aunt Genna, but then she had left for Kayce with her husband and his cousins not too long after the end of the war.

“Your brother from what I recall had trouble reading, and mixed up all his letters. No one said anything about it out loud, but I remember Jeyne telling me about it once…” at the mention of Jeyne Farman, Ser Gareth grew quite silent. Tyrion knew that the knight had been betrothed to Lady Farman—a friend of his sister’s from childhood—but he had not known that Ser Gareth was this affected by her death. But Ser Gareth shook his head, appearing to recover as he continued, “The point being that we all have different talents and should best learn how to use them. Tell me more about this saddle you’ve designed. I am interested in that my lord,” urged Gareth with such a show of sincerity that Tyrion could not help but be moved. It reminded him of Master Arthur Dayne—who had answered all his inquiries about Dorne with genuine enthusiasm.

_He’s like Uncle and Arthur… he sees me for what I am capable of, not my deformity…_

And so Tyrion slammed the book he’d been skimming shut and hopped down from the padded chair he’d been seated on and told Gareth that the best way to understand his new saddle was to see it for himself. So they hurried as quickly as Tyrion could waddle towards the stables. However, along the way they ran into a guardsman who was escorting three Reachmen smallfolk to his uncle. Tyrion could obviously tell they were Reachmen by their swarthy complexions that stood out amongst the paler Westerland complexions. His uncle had explained to Tyrion that he had ordered for all smallfolk to be branded on the cheek so as to prevent them trying to slip into the Westerlands again and blending in—also to let anyone who caught them in the future to know that they had already defied the law and deserved death if breaking their word again. It was one idea his uncle had had when more than a few Riverlanders had tried sneaking back to the Golden Tooth than was good. The three Reachmen beyond their complexions were of various shapes, one tall and gangly, another stout and fat, and the third looking barely older than a boy with his lean appearance.

“Say dwarf, where’s your motley coat and bells?” asked the tall one.

Tyrion fiercely stated, with as great a glare as he could muster, “I’m the Lord of the Rock and the Westerlands!”

“Oh, and will you be branding us yourself, milord?” asked the fat one as he turned around and bent over to shove his rear in Tyrion’s face.

“My lord, we best ignore—” but Ser Gareth’s words were cut short by the flatulent sound which emanated from the fat one. A rancid smell soon following thereafter.

“Forgive me, milord, but me bowels are a bit anxious fer that branding iron,” japed the fat one.

At this even the guardsman laughed. Tyrion was about to reach for the dagger his Aunt Darlessa—his Uncle Tygett’s widow—had given him, when suddenly Ser Gareth drew his sword and using the flat of his blade knocked the Reachmen ruffians soundly.

“You were about to show me that saddle, my lord?” asked Ser Gareth.

Tyrion, breathing heavily nodded and they continued on their way to the stables. Upon arrival, Ser Gareth inspected the saddle which was designed with straps to keep Tyrion’s legs onto the saddle since he could not grip the horse, plus various hand holds to help him climb up into the saddle.

“I just need a horse that’ll listen to the reigns and not the spurs. So far Tygen has listened, but he isn’t consistent all the time,” Tyrion explained.

“Riding a horse is about more than spurs and reigns—it’s about man and steed becoming one, so that one knows what the other will do before they even think it,” commented Ser Gareth sagely.

Tyrion then said, “Well then, teach me. I’m quite willing to learn.”

After a boy was sent to inform his uncle as to his plans, a stable hand was called over to mount two horses, which was done so. Tyrion then jumped for the first handhold he had designed and then began the climb onto Tygen. He struggled getting to the third handhold and Ser Garth nearly picked him up.

Ser Gareth insisted, “My lord there is no shame in requesting help.”

_Only one more handhold to go…_

“But no one… respects you either…”

“Nonsense, a wise man knows when he’s reached his limits.”

“I can do this… my… self!” insisted Tyrion as he grasped the fourth handhold that would allow him to get his feet under him and pull himself up. As he settled himself into position, he noticed Ser Gareth’s stare, and smugly said, “And do you think I’ve reached my limits, then?”

Ser Gareth stared blankly for a minute before admitting, “I underestimated you, my lord.”

Seeing that he truly admitted as much, Tyrion said, after the stable hand had finished strapping his legs to the saddle, “Thank you. For admitting that… and for earlier…”

Ser Gareth was soon upon his own mount and they were set to ride out down beyond the Lion’s Mouth and beyond the city walls of Lannisport, where they could have more room to train Tygen to listen to Tyrion. As they plodded down the stone pathway to the Lion’s Mouth—the only gate which had stood between him and the Ironborn invaders when they had come—Ser Gareth took stock of Tygen’s gait.

“He’s a bit too eager to trot… likely from being cooped up too much,” commented Ser Gareth

It wasn’t long after they had left the Lion’s Mouth that they had begun to pass the fortifications of the city that Tyrion heard a distinctive smack come from behind him and Tygen suddenly pulled on the reigns and was sent off flying in the direction towards the nearby forest to the south and east of the city at a frantic gallop. Tyrion, from the suddenness was in sheer shock for some time until he began to regain control of his senses to pull on the reigns—but Tygen was in one of his moods, and would not obey the command, fighting against him. By this point he was passing into the trees of the forest, branches swiping at him and scratching him, until at long last Tygen begins to slow, tired from the run and comes to a stop in a clearing in the woods. Tyrion assessed himself in that moment, feeling several cuts and scrapes, but nothing much more.

Soon he heard after him the calls of Ser Gareth, who shortly appeared in the meadow upon his stallion.

“I see what you mean about not listening!” nearly laughed Ser Gareth with some good-humor.

Tyrion collected his mind before speaking, saying, “I heard a smack before Tygen began to run.”

“A smack?” asked Ser Gareth curiously.

“Aye, a smack,” confirmed Tyrion pointedly.

“I do not recalling hearing any such sound, my lord… mayhaps though you confused my clapping of a horsefly?” suggested Ser Gareth.

Tyrion eyed Ser Gareth but just then his ears caught the sound of shoveling followed soon after by the voice of a man singing. Tyrion looked off and at the far end of the clearing Tyrion saw a great pit with a smallfolk man inside it digging it deeper with a shovel. Tyrion’s eyes met Ser Gareth's and the two urged their tired horses closer to the man, hearing his son as he dug.

“Matters not, be we smallfolk or high lord,  
For when we be dead we all lay flat as a board,” completed the digger as they approached, and before the digger could begin singing again

Tyrion asked, “My good man, could you tell me why you are digging this pit out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Aye, I be digging a grave,” snorted the digger.

“For which man?” asked Ser Gareth.

“For no one man,” answered the digger as he continued to shovel.

“Then for what woman?” asked Tyrion.

“For no one man nor one woman do I dig this here grave,” replied the digger.

“You cannot mean to tell me, that you mean to bury a horse or a dog,” exclaimed Tyrion.

“Nay my lords. I dig this for two men and several women—though the women be Silent sisters, who will have not the temptation to speak no more,” clucked the digger.

“The man’s a half-wit,” mumbled Ser Gareth.

“And why is it that they are being buried here? Is there no room in a nearby lichfield? Should they not be buried in the sight of the Seven?” queried Tyrion.

The digger continued morbidly, “They were found dead hanging among the trees one morning—the men were nothin’ but bones at their feet bein' chewed at by dogs, but the sisters… by the Seven they were raped and had their robes all torn. ‘Tis thought bad luck to bury such wanderers in a lichfield, less their specters come back somethin' vengeful. Better to leave ‘em out here—so theys don’t cause no trouble in the village. ‘Sides which, the sight o’ the Seven don’t include the Westerlands…”

“Grumpkins…” muttered Tyrion to himself, irritated at all the superstitious nonsense he ran across—there wasn’t a greater challenge to all learning than superstition, and Tyrion detested it.

“What’s your name, my good man?” asked Ser Gareth.

The gravedigger continued about his work, but answered, “Yorick, milord.”

Tyrion tired of such conversation tilted his head that they should go, and so they did, leaving Yorick to his work. They then set out to find a stream or a small pool for the horses to get a drink from, doing such, they each dismounted—Tyrion at this point accepting Ser Gareth’s help. As they sat by the stream bed waiting for the horses to have their fill, Tyrion decided to probe this Knight of his.

“What think you of these marriages, good Ser?” asked Tyrion.

Ser Gareth—who chewed on a stem of a cattails he has plucked from the river, replied, “Never thought much on it. Before the raids my father had arranged for me to marry Jeyne Farman… but she died on Fair Isle…”

“Did you care for her?” asked Tyrion

Ser Gareth continued to gnaw on the stem for a moment before saying, “A bit… we’d played together as children… before she was sent to be a companion to your sister.”

“Are you eager to be married to another, my lord?” probed Tyrion.

“Nay… Jeyne was a sweet girl whom I liked much… but Seven help me I’ll do my duty when I find a lady,” commented Ser Gareth with a certain melancholic tone to his voice.

“And what think you on the other marriages?” asked Tyrion

Ser Gareth clarified, “Of the Westerlands? Well, to be blunt, we need lordlings my lord.”

“Speak truly, how do the lords feel about their marriages?” asked Tyrion.

“The land is filled with questions, my lord. No one questions your motives, but they still do not like the results,” mentioned Ser Gareth.

_If only I had a dragon. No one questions the man with a dragon. Aegon the Conqueror proved that._

But as much as he wanted a dragon, Maester (Gold) had said they had long since died out with only the skulls in the Red Keep as evidence they had lived at all. The new King had the three largest and oldest skulls on display in the throne room while the rest were packed away in the dungeons to make room for stag antlers and wolf pelts when Tyrion had visited with his uncle and sister before returning to the Westerlands. He had wanted to stick a torch in the mouth of one—just to imagine what it would be like to see one breathe fire, but Cersei had screeched and slapped the torch from his hand when he had tried with Meraxes’ skull.

It was just then that Tyrion was broken from his reverie by the sound of a clunk. Tyrion turned to see one of the Reachman from earlier—the lean one—holding a large rock in both his hands having knocked Ser Gareth unconscious with the rock. Just then the fat and thin one appeared on the other side of the tiny stream across from Tyrion, who took note of the fact that their cheeks did not appear branded for some odd reason. But this was a reason Tyrion had not time to contemplate.

“Why, what chance… we meet again, dwarf,” laughed the thin and tall one.

_There was no escaping these men… unless…_

“How much gold do you want?” asked Tyrion

That seemed to cause the fat one to pause, but not long enough as Tyrion was then scooped up by the lean one and hung by his doublet off of a branch just high enough that now he was eye level with the men who tore at his clothes, saying he deserved less finer things to wear and prodding him to sing for them. Tyrion kept his mouth shut and when one of them got the bright idea to try and open it and force him to sing he tried to bite their finger off. Just then an arrow was felled and shot through the lean one’s skull, the arrow continuing on its flight and pinning the now dead man to the tree.

“Fuck! It’s the guards!” called out the thin one, who then immediately took off for deeper in the woods, followed by the bounding fat man.

Not long after they had left, two figures appeared from deeper in the forest, one of which Tyrion recognized as the older Clegane boy—well at that height it was getting less appropriate to think of him as that—and what looked to be a servant of his who carried the bow and arrows along with a few rabbits and other small game along with him upon his back—likely his gamekeeper.

“Good shot, Murchadh… Oh… why I can’t fucking believe my luck…” said Clegane.

Tyrion attempted to gain some control of his situation, “I thank you for getting rid of those Reachmen, but if I could beg you to be of some further assistance…”

“And what would I get out of it?” spat Clegane.

“I could see that you’re paid in tremendous amount of gold…” offered Tyrion.

Clegane growled, “I don’t fucking need no Lannister gold… but I have a sister that was wrongfully taken from me and a wife that I don’t want… no thanks to your bloody uncle.”

“W—when I come of age I’ll see to it, that your marriage is annulled!” offered Tyrion.

This seemed to interest Clegane but he shook his head, “By the time you come of age dwarf, I won’t be you or your Uncle’s ward anymore. My sister--”

“I’ll still be your liege lord, though! I’ll write on your behalf… to the High Septon if I must!” insisted Tyrion, desperate to be let down, as he heard his doublet begin to tear as he swung about. The last thing he wanted to do was fall from this height.

 

"And Calena?"

 

"I don't know..." began Tyrion.

 

"Then I don't know if I can _assist_ you," emphasized Clegane.

 

"I'll write to the High Septon about her as well!" insisted Tyrion

  
Clegane seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head and picking Tyrion up off the branch and then roughly placing him on the ground.

“I expect you to write your bloody letter, then,” growled Clegane, who then left with his black of hair gamekeeper.

Tyrion laid on the ground for a moment to catch his breath, gods what a day it had been. Eventually when he realized the Reachmen could return, Tyrion got up, waddled over to Ser Gareth and prodded him back to consciousness with some help from the stream. They then mounted Ser Gareth’s horse—Tygen having wandered off, and seeing the setting sun thought it best to return to Casterly Rock—it would already be well past dark, and Tyrion was assured that Tygen would like any horse find his way back to his stable, given the chance. Tyrion thus rode in front of Ser Gareth like any child would. Despite everything, Tyrion could not help but think that something was off about the day. He could not put his finger on it, but he knew it to be true, nonetheless.


	21. Jaime

  
**JAIME**  
  
The day after the King’s wedding, Jaime went to Cersei’s chambers but did not find her there. Or rather he found he could not enter them to find her. He tried again and again each night until nearly a week had passed without speaking to her in private. It was torture, pure and simple torture. He saw her in public, he knew she was physically fine as much as she let anyone else see, but she would not speak with him in private. He tried pulling her to some nook or secluded alcove and she would have an odd look in her eye, speak of some person she was to meet and walk away coldly.  
  
She would not let him hold her, caress her, and tell her that she still had an opportunity with Stannis—as much as it hurt him to say it. But she was killing him by denying the contact. She spurned his love and that more than anything made each night an agony all its own—to have her so close, and yet not at all.  
  
Finally on the seventh night he heard her within, crying. He gave their knock that they had used since they had first begun sharing a bed as children. Not a moment later did he hear the bolt and bar being to be moved. Then in an instant he saw her. She was red and puffy eyed, but beyond that she was a beautiful sight to behold with her golden hair free for him to run his fingers through. She did not open the door fully, but instead stared at him, then discarding whatever reticence she had, she pushed open the door and flung herself to him immediately. He held her close, at long last feeling whole once again. They then stumbled into her chambers, him kicking the door shut behind them as he slowly and gently began to kiss her—all to take away her pain, that was his only design.  
  
“Jaime…” said Cersei as she interrupted him.  
  
He kissed her harder, urged by her having said his name, grazing his teeth slightly across her neck like he knew she liked.  
  
“Mmmm…” she moaned, but then reluctantly moved her arm between them and pushed him away as she said, “Jaime.”  
  
“Let me make it better,” he pleaded, hating how he sounded almost exactly like the young boy he had been when they’d started this oh so long ago.  
  
“Right now, I need my brother, not my lover,” said Cersei definitively, her glance growing firm, adopting one of father’s old looks.  
  
“I thought I was one in the same,” he teased, gaining a few years to the cocky elder boy he’d been before he’d taken the white cloak.  
  
“Please, Jaime.” Although she said please, it was a demand, not a request.  
  
Disgruntled, he pried himself from her with a sigh. He felt the absence of her quite keenly once he’d done so. To keep himself from not listening, he took a seat upon her bed and waited for her to say what she felt she must.  
  
She did not keep him waiting long.  
  
She began quite calmly, “Uncle Stafford wrote me. He said if I did not get myself betrothed within a moon that I am to return to marry a bannerman.”  
  
“Which bannerman?” he asked, feeling something stir within his gut as he said as much.  
  
She crossed to her desk just beyond the curtain which separated the chamber in half, and leaned against its edge as she spoke, her eyes not rising to meet his, “Ser Gareth Clifton, who will be named Lord of Fair Isle and replace… the Farmans… who are all… dead,” said Cersei with some difficulty.  
  
“If the thought of marrying him displeases you so much, then stay here as one of the Queen’s ladies,” he suggested outright.  
  
 _We could be together then…_  
  
Cersei raised her head and stared directly at him after he said this—as though she were seeing a stranger before her. She broke the hypnotic connection with a few blinks and she said rather out of jointly, “You missed my point.”  
  
She then stood but moved not, as if frozen to the spot. Jaime stood from the bed and tried to move to her side, but in response to his movement, she retreated to keep the distance between them.  
  
“Cersei, I can’t know what’s wrong if you don’t tell me,” he pleaded.  
  
“I thought you… you of all people would know…” she said, almost incoherently.  
  
“Would know what?” he asked.  
  
She turned on him and nearly shouted at him, “I just told you that Clifton will get all of Fair Isle and all you can say is that I should become that Wolf Bitch’s glorified handmaiden?! Jaime, did you hear a word I said?”  
  
“Aye, I heard it all,” he replied, crossing his arms—not liking what she was implying.  
  
“Then surely you must realize who’s dead?” she stated obviously.  
  
“The Farmans, as you said,” he said cautiously.  
  
 _It was not a pretty sight… don’t make me relive it Cersei… please…_  
  
“Yes, but if Ser Gareth is getting Fair Isle, don’t you realize who also is dead then?” she asked as though she were leading a child to a conclusion.  
  
“Aye, Lord Frydric, Lord Sebaston, Lady Sabryna, and Lady Jeyne…” and then he realized what she truly meant, which apparently was plastered across his face.  
  
“Now do you see?” she said as though rubbing his nose in it.  
  
He paused before saying, “I’m sorry, Cersei…”  
  
At this Cersei’s tears once again welled up in her eyes as she spoke with great affection, “Melara and Jeyne were the only ones close to me, besides you… now they’re both dead. Jeyne was supposed to marry Gareth, her father had planned the match for years, and she was quite smitten with him—the little fool. Well, she wasn’t such a fool—she knew enough to run from the witch… but even that did not save her… she’s dead…”  
  
No longer were his thoughts clouded with that of lust, he was solely her brother now as he reached out to try and wipe away a few tears, to bring her close to him and simply hold her and let her cry it all out.  
  
“Cersei…” he said.  
  
“Don’t touch me! You’re not Jaime! Jaime would have known…” she cried out.  
  
He waited for her to regain control of her tears before he replied, “Don’t you think you’re being a little too demanding? I mean, she was _your_ friend. Around me all she did was giggle and whisper in Melara’s ear.”  
  
Cersei however did not seem to hear him as she demanded of him, “Did you know?”  
  
“What?” he questioned.  
  
“Did you know that she was dead?” she pressed further.  
  
“Her father and brother, aye… her specifically… no. There were far too many women gathered in that castle to keep track of them all, and pulling down the Farmans made me—” but he was interrupted by her.  
  
“Pulling down?” she asked  
  
 _Seven help me…_  
  
And so he explained how the Farmans had been found stripped naked and tied by their arms and legs to the riggings of their sails.  
  
He concluded his explanation, “They died from exposure and were left upon the riggings for carrion. Birds had already picked off the juicer parts.”  
  
“Which parts?” she asked, suddenly interested in a bird's eating habits.  
  
 _Damn you, Cersei…_  
  
“The eyes…” he said.  
  
 _So that they could pull out the brains through the eye sockets…_  
  
There was a silence between them both, and Cersei wandered across the chamber to the other end of the bed, clutching the bed post as she did—her fingers turning white from the grip. She then suddenly turned around and demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
 _I wanted to forget…_  
  
“To spare you the—” he began. But he was silenced by a hard and firm slap across his left cheek. It caused his jaw to go numb for a few seconds and his face to wince in pain.  
  
“Did you just hit me?” he asked with shock.  
  
“I am not some weak feeble-minded woman for you to spare what troubles you! We’ve told each other everything until you took that white cloak!” she accused him, finally approaching him and pulling at the cloak which still hung about his shoulders.  
  
That was a mistake on her part.  
  
“I took this white cloak because you asked me to, remember?” He then cleared his throat and giving his voice a slight falsetto, he imitated her voice and repeated, to the best of his memory, her very words, “One day I shall be Queen, Jaime—Maggy the Frog saw it in my future! We can’t be together though unless you take a white cloak. Join the Kingsguard for me, Jaime… and when I am Queen, I’ll make you my Lord Commander. You’ll keep me safe and we’ll be together until our dying days.”  
  
Cersei let go of the white cloak, as if disgusted by it, her lips pursing as she then said, “But I am not Queen now.”  
  
He gruffly admitted, “No, you are not. In the very beginning, when Rhaegar was still Prince and married to Elia, I had hopes of the next child killing her and you coming to take her place… but now Robert is King.”  
  
“Aye and it could be me in there instead of that wolf bitch had father prevailed,” muttered Cersei.  
  
He warned her, “Have a care, Cersei. She is the Queen.”  
  
“She’s not a Queen,” scoffed his twin.  
  
He reminded her, “The High Septon has blessed her with the Seven holy oils and she has sworn her oath both before the New gods and her Weirwood ones. She is the Queen.”  
  
Cersei almost smiled as she said, “It takes more than an oil stained cloak and a few words to truly be a Queen.”  
  
“Even so, _she_ is the Queen, and _nothing_ you can do will change that,” he emphasized that point. Enough Westerland blood had been spilled in the folly of trying to force her to be Queen. She’d had her year to tempt the King, and no success. Best she put the entire idea behind her.  
  
“No… and so I must wait or follow our uncle’s wishes…” she said quite eerily after pausing and giving him an odd look.  
  
“There’s still... Stannis,” he said, hating himself even as he said it.  
  
She retreated back to her desk, looking over a few jars and bottles of serums to promote good health that she kept on it absentmindedly, dismissing his suggestion as she did so, “He’s too far gone with that Waynwood.”  
  
 _Thank the Seven…_  
  
“And so I must instead take poor Jeyne’s place…” said Cersei as she paused at a particular bottle before gripping it firmly—so tight was her grip that the glass broke. She then dropped the bottle to the desk and shook out her hand—blood dripping as she did.  
  
“Your hand!” he exclaimed, but before he could move to do something about her cuts.  
  
She turned around at him and said determinedly, “No! Don’t come near me.”  
  
“You’re bleeding,” he reminded her.  
  
She stared at him coldly as she then said almost above a whisper, “Get Out.” He stood there a moment unsure that he had actually heard her say what she had before she came at him to push him towards the door with her bloody hand—a few pieces of glass still stuck in it. She repeated herself with each push, as though she were shooing an irritating pet that she had grown tired of tolerating, eventually pushing him out into the passageway, and leaving him there in utter shock as she slammed her door, bolted and barred it and began to cry on the other side of it. He heard her through the door. He pressed against it, still feeling the need to reach out to her, though she had pushed him away. Eventually the cries slowed then stopped, and once again Jaime was left outside of her chambers yet another night—only now he felt that they would be barred from him ever more.


	22. Edmure

******EDMURE**  
  
He was ready to be back on his feet long before he was actually permitted. His father had given instructions that Edmure was to have a moon’s bedrest, after which he was thrust back into his schedule of training. Edmure felt far weaker than he had before he’d taken ill—but seeing the success that Asha Greyjoy was having with a bow and arrows, Edmure was more determined to prove that he hadn’t been wasting time in the rain. While his Uncle was away for a fortnight he pushed himself and soon he was back at least to where he had been, though he thought that he was still behind the other boys.  
  
Perwyn Frey of all the other boys, being the eldest amongst the group seemed to take a position of responsibility with regards to motivating them to keep their drills regular. Edmure was in fact technically left in charge for the fortnight under the protection of the servants. These drills often turned into little competitions in which each boy would try and best each other in the training that favored them the best. Even Asha was permitted to compete—though only in the archery competition as she had little interest  
  
Often times when these competitions were finished, Edmure would follow Asha—still dressed in his old hand-me-downs, looking rather like another boy with her hair kept short. Sometimes Patrek, who was only a few moons younger than Asha, got confused and called her a “him”. Doing so had ended up getting him teased horribly by Ronald and Hugo Vance. Until of course Asha, Marq, and Edmure had stepped in to protect Patrek from Ronald and Hugo’s japes. He was the youngest of them all, and while the Vance brothers were only one and two years older than he that gave them little reason to gang up on the little eagle.  
  
That of course had started a series of practical jokes that Edmure secretly enjoyed, though he pretended not to. The latest prank Edmure was still dusting himself off from as he found Asha sitting rather dryly on a rock in the shallow waters of the Tumblestone. The Vance brothers had somehow balanced a bucket of flour on top of a door that Edmure had entered. He immediately sought out Asha, seeing as she had the cooler head and craftier plans than the otherwise rash Marq or even himself.  
  
“Liam and Tristan are better than you at swordplay,” remarked Asha, as it had become their customary greeting to remind each other where the other was still lacking.  
  
“And Tristan and Perwyn have a better aim than you do,” retorted Edmure, referring to her recent challenging of all the other squires in archery, whom she beat everyone but Perwyn and Tristan in—Edmure though had happily come in fourth after her, though he would yet be a better shot than her! Of that he was determined.  
  
It made sense though that Perwyn and Tristan beat them both though—given that they were the eldest and second eldest respectably. What had surprised them all though, was Tristan’s capabilities were nearly as good in anything he tried. The otherwise unremarkable Tristan, quite plain of face, and otherwise quiet seemed to have a natural talent for swordplay, wrestling, running, archery, horse riding, the rings, jousting—practically anything he tried. Tristan of course always came in second place to the others who were more talented in one particular focus or other, but they were a closely made second place in Edmure’s opinion. And he was irritatingly humble about it all, accounting his placements in these competitions to “luck” and “the Gods’ good grace”, but as Edmure watched him in subsequent days the skill Tristan had did not wane or vary on differing days. Edmure made a note, that if he were to ever go to war that one soldier he’d like to have on his side would be Tristan Ryger.  
  
Hendry and Brynden were the best at wrestling, given that their arguments often descended into practice for this anyway—with both tying with one another match after match. Edmure, still being somewhat skinny was easily pinned by others with more muscle—and no one dared let Patrek try wrestling.  
  
Despite being only a year older than Edmure, Liam Mooton was the best at swords. Marq surprised everyone by how quick he was at running, and his close compatriot Lymond, the youngest one to take seriously in the competitions besides Marq, seemed to have been born on the back of a horse for how good he was at riding one.  
  
“You’re all white,” commented Asha, putting aside the piece of parchment in her hands. She often came to sit by the Tumblestone to read when she got a letter from Winterfell.  
  
“Ronald and Hugo’s work,” commented Edmure before he shucked his boots and gave a shallow dive into the river to clean himself off. Swimming, that was definitely one thing that Edmure was quite good at, given that it was in each Tully’s blood to be a good swimmer. Cat and Lysa had been very good swimmers, Cat being the one who taught him to swim in the Tumblestone and Red Fork—each was a different kind of river to swim in and needed slightly different skills. It was too bad that Uncle had yet to add swimming to their daily regimens and drills. When Edmure surfaced on the other bank of the Tumblestone he shook his hair free from the water like a dog would shake upon land. This earned a laugh from Asha, and feeling a bit mischievous, Edmure crossed the swiftly moving current of the Tumblestone expertly, and upon drawing close to the squid shook his wet hair at her.  
  
“Stop! Not near Theon’s letter!” called out Asha as she shielded the parchment that she’d been reading before his arrival.  
  
“What’s this one say?” asked Edmure as he grabbed hold of the edge of the rock and then pulled himself up halfway out of the water so he could let his elbows rest on the rock so he could lean on it. This brought his body into a near prone position into the water which threatened to push him off the rock, but Edmure stubbornly persisted he maintain his presence on the rock.  
  
“It’s nothing,” said Asha immediately, rolling up the parchment.  
  
“It wouldn’t be nothing if you asked me to stop getting you wet,” countered Edmure with a smirk.  
  
Cautiously Asha admitted, “He says he likes Winterfell is all.”  
  
“What’s so bad about that? You like Riverrun don’t you?” asked Edmure. He never got a straight answer out of her on that subject, but he did see her try to fight from smiling when he mentioned that. She was just too proud to admit she liked being in Riverrun was all—of that Edmure felt certain.  
  
“He’s friendly with another ward… Raynald...”  
  
“You’re friendly with me, Marq, and Patrek,” rejoined Edmure  
  
This she was much more willing to admit to, “Aye, but he says he’s like a brother…”  
  
He asked “What’s wrong with that?”  
  
“We had two brothers, and yet he says Raynald is better than either of them!” snapped Asha.  
  
Asha seemed to be rather hurt and confused, and Edmure didn’t like it when she was either—that scared him in fact. When she was confused that meant the Vances were likely to win. So Edmure thought hard to think back to when he had been Theon’s age and what being a good brother meant to him at that age. Finally remembering he asked, “Did your brothers ever play with him?”  
  
“What?” asked Asha with a different kind of confusion.  
  
“Did they ever play with him?” repeated Edmure calmly.  
  
“No… they were men grown,” answered Asha.  
  
He smiled and said, “Well that’s why then.”  
  
“And how do you, who’ve barely left Riverrun, know what my brother is thinking?” challenged Asha.  
  
“When I was his age I liked my sister Lysa more than my sister Cat, because Lysa was more willing to play with me. It wasn’t until I got older that I changed my mind,” answered Edmure rather easily.  
  
Asha rolled her eyes at his simple, but honest response, to which Edmure replied with a splash, though he was careful only to get her feet wet. All talk of trying to get the Vance brothers back was lost as each sent little splashes at each other. That is until both the brown haired Ronald and Hugo disturbed them by jumping into the Tumblestone themselves—being chased by a swarm of bees as they did so. When both Ronald and Hugo surfaced the swarm thankfully had decided to disperse, though they were much farther down the river than Edmure had been told was safe. And his suspicions were proven true when the younger of the two, Hugo, proved to have trouble swimming against the current. At the rate he was going, he’d soon be sucked through the rapids which began the Tumblestone’s joining with the Red Fork, and ended right where Riverrun’s giant waterwheel would suck him under. Ronald was smart enough to grab onto a rock, and tried to grab his brother’s hand, but the current was too strong for the younger Vance to reach his brother’s outstretched arm.  
  
“Stay here,” urged Edmure to Asha as he pushed off the rock and swam with the current down the river. He quickly passed Ronald and shouted to him to keep holding on if he couldn’t climb on top of the rock. Hugo by this point had managed to grab hold of a half submerged tree branch that had fallen into the Tumblestone at the beginning of the rapids, but from what Edmure saw the wood was too rotted to hold him for much longer, and so he hurried up his pace and managed to grab Hugo’s hand before the branch broke. Edmure then did his best to stand up and asked for Hugo to climb up onto his back. But Hugo was too scared to do it right—instead taking that as permission to climb his shoulders and clutch his head, frantically wrapping his small hands around Edmure’s eyes and mouth. It was getting hard to breathe let a lone see or stand up and against the swift current Edmure felt his foot slip on a rock, and just as he was about to consider how hurt he’d be surviving the rapids if he’d manage to survive the waterwheel, Edmure felt a pair of arms wrap around his thin waist with what felt like a rope of some kind. He then felt Hugo pried off his head, allowing him to at last surface from the swiftly moving cold waters and to gasp for much needed air.  
  
To his surprise Asha was behind him and had swiftly tied a thick vine from a nearby tree around his waist. The vine was pulled tight to where it clung to the tree, with Hugo using it to pull himself back to shore.  
  
“Stay there, catch your breath, and keep the line taught,” said Asha as she held on to him. Edmure blithely nodded that he understood, and continued taking deep breaths. When he had recovered, Hugo had made it back to shore. Asha then asked him if he were good to stay in the water. Once again Edmure found himself nodding, but now standing up to indicate how well he had recovered. The water here just barely came up to his chest, and Asha then turned to call out to Ronald upstream to let go of the rock.  
  
“The river will wash me away!” screamed back the other Vance brother as he held his eyes tightly shut as firmly as he clung to the rock.  
  
“We have a line for you to catch. Just jump towards us and you can use it to pull yourself in!” called back Asha confidently.  
  
Hesitatingly Ronald opened his eyes and seeing what she had mentioned he let go of the rock and pushed himself in their direction. Asha moved along the line so that she could make sure to keep Ronald from being swept past them and down into the rapids, and helped him take hold of the line. Soon both Asha and Ronald had pulled themselves in, and Edmure followed having to pull himself in as the other three recovered on the riverbank.  
  
“Why did you jump in the Tumblestone?” asked Asha once she had recovered.  
  
“Your honey prank,” mumbled Ronald weakly.  
  
“What honey prank?” asked Edmure.  
  
“Don’t deny it. We know it was you two and Marq who balanced that honey pot on top of our door! When we went to wash it out in the courtyard, the bees started chasing us,” explained Ronald.  
  
“I didn’t do it! You got me with your flour bucket!” protested Edmure.  
  
“What flour bucket?” asked Hugo.  
  
“One of you two turned Edmure as white a ghost with the same door balancing trick,” explained Asha  
  
“No we didn’t!” insisted Hugo.  
  
“Well _someone_ did,” countered Edmure.  
  
“Probably the same person who set the honey pot for them… there must be another group of pranksters in play,” offered Asha slyly—her crafty mind once again at work!  
  
“You’re just making all that up,” complained Ronald.  
  
“Go ask Perwyn how white I was after the flour fell on me!” insisted Edmure stubbornly.  
  
Perwyn, being the eldest was generally accepted by all the boys and Asha to be the most honest as well. To invoke Perwyn’s word was almost like invoking the Seven. And as Ronald and Hugo—who had all the honey washed off of them from the stream ran off  
  
“Where did you learn this?” asked Edmure as he struggled to untie the knot that Asha had tied around him, finally giving up and letting her smaller and more nimble fingers work out the knot with a quick pull.  
  
“My nuncle Aerion taught me. He was always good with ropes and knots,” answered Asha.  
  
“How come you don’t get any letters from him?” asked Edmure.  
  
“He’s dead. His boat went down off of Lannisport,” answered Asha sadly.  
  
“Oh… well… sorry.”  
  
Asha nodded, and Edmure knew that that was the closest either would come to saying such words as “thank you” or “your welcome”. Oh if Cat could only see them now… she’d have such a fit.  
  
Perwyn backed Edmure’s story of the flour up to the Vance brothers and a truce was called between the five of them until the third prankster or group of pranksters could be discovered. But after the flour and honey incident nothing else happened for the remainder of Uncle Brynden’s absence.  
  
When Uncle Brynden returned, he brought with him, much to Edmure’s surprise, an Aunt for Edmure. Aunt Jeyne’s appearance at Riverrun was a shock to nearly every boy, but most of all to Edmure. For as long as he had known his uncle, Edmure recalled that he had never once shown any interest in a woman. Well, it wasn’t that Edmure hadn’t heard Uncle Brynden comment on how pretty a certain woman looked in low tones usually Edmure was not supposed to hear, but his uncle had never shown anything beyond that to Edmure’s knowledge. And with the sudden addition of Aunt Jeyne’s company, Edmure felt as though his entire world had been turned on its head.  
  
Aunt Jeyne was not a pretty woman. In fact she was rather plain if Edmure were to be honest. Her brown hair did not shine, but was feathery and liked to break free from whatever style she had it done in in loose strands which floated about her as though her hair weighed nothing at all. Her blue eyes were murky like the Tumblestone after a storm. She was also a bit too thin. No, she had not the looks that would certainly attract a man like his uncle, of that Edmure was certain. Of the two his Uncle was far more handsome than she was. Then how to account for Uncle’s suddenly marrying her? Why her, when, in Edmure’s mind, his uncle could have the best looking woman in the Seven Kingdoms—and rightly deserved as much!  
  
Edmure contemplated this through the moons to come as he observed them. They rarely spent time alone together, let alone spoke to one another in front of him and the rest of the wards of Riverrun. The most conversation he ever heard from them came at supper when she asked if he would like to have the honor to carve a roast. Beyond that there was utter silence between them, which made Edmure consider that his father had forced his uncle to marry Jeyne Darry. As such, Edmure worried if his father would force him to marry when he became a man grown. The thought of being married to an ugly stranger worried Edmure, and so he vowed not to marry such a person—no matter what tricks his father employed to wed him to one!  
  
Edmure’s interactions with her were far more numerous than his uncle’s as she took an interest in all the children during the hours when they were not in training. And for all of his new Aunt’s outwardly defects, Edmure had to admit she had a rather good heart. She immediately won over Patrek, despite his fussiness. Marq liked the meals under served under her guidance better, saying that they tasted better. And to him, Edmure thought his new Aunt came up with some of the cleverest japes that he’d yet heard. Edmure though thought the true test of her skills came when seeing her with Asha. Unlike the Septa, Aunt Jeyne seemed to have a marvelous patience to match her eerily calm and quiet voice. Edmure walked in on them in the Great Hall one evening before the evening meal was served and heard:  
  
“My Lady Greyjoy, do not you tire of wearing Lord Edmure’s old clothes?” asked his Aunt sweetly.  
  
“I’m not wearing a dress!” insisted Asha, seeming to suspect where this conversation was leading.  
  
“I did not say you should. But wouldn’t you like clothes of your own? Black breeches and doublet with a golden kraken sewn on it instead of a silver trout on red and blue?” asked his Aunt Jeyne. Edmure immediately felt himself bristle at the suggestion. Not only did he begin to doubt Aunt Jeyne’s loyalty to her new house for the first time, but he also thought that Asha looked nice in red and blue colors of his house.  
  
Grudgingly Asha admitted “That would not be so bad…” and then with a little more confidence she added, “a trout’s a boring symbol.”  
  
Edmure shook with anger when he heard her say that!  
  
“A trout is not boring! It’s reliable and loyal!” interrupted Edmure hastily, alerting them to his presence for the first time.  
  
Before Asha could snap back with a reply of her own, Hendry Bracken who had just entered the hall for the evening meal—followed quickly by Brynden Blackwood—responded, “And that’s what makes a trout boring.”  
  
“How’s a horse any better?” challenged Edmure.  
  
“At least you can do more with one than eat it,” replied Brynden Blackwood.  
  
At this point his Uncle along with the rest of his charges came into the Great Hall and added his own point, “You bloody well shouldn’t be comparing the symbols of your houses like you do your little cocks!”  
  
Aunt Jeyne averted her eyes in response to this while Asha burst into laughter, in response to which his Uncle cleared his throat and continued as they all took their seats on the benches around the large table they ate at, “After all, the symbol of your family’s house is distinct. It does not matter if your family’s symbol does not inspire fear in your enemies on the battlefield—for we all would loose that test here.”  
  
“House Blackwood wouldn’t!” interjected Brynden.  
  
And Hendry added for good measure, “Nor Bracken!”  
  
“A dead tree surrounded by a circle of ravens, and a rearing horse. Those are supposed to send fear into the hearts of your enemies?” quipped his Uncle sarcastically.  
  
“It does to Brackens!” mumbled his Uncle’s namesake.  
  
For that of course kicking and punching was expected soon to break out between Brynden and Hendry—who refused to sit anywhere but next to each other at meals.  
  
To everyone’s surprise Aunt Jeyne interrupted the two of them by saying, “If Brackens feared you, they would not fight for that deserted little valley which lays between your lands. If they truly feared you, they’d let you have it and have been done with the matter of your feud a millennia ago.”  
  
For the first time that Edmure had been observing him, he saw his Uncle look… appreciatively at his new wife—but that was soon wiped away as he returned to addressing the rest of “Mooton, how is a red salmon, supposed to drive fear on the battlefield?”  
  
“It isn’t, Ser,” admitted Liam.  
  
“But it holds significance to your House, does it not?” asked Uncle Brynden as he cut into a well roasted piece of mutton.  
  
“Aye…my house founder was said to catch nothing but salmon…” admitted Liam rather bashfully.  
  
There were a few bursts of laughter around the table as the servants began serving.  
  
“Think that’s funny Piper? Pray tell us why a naked lady dancing with a ribbon of silk is upon your banners.”  
  
“It’s how the first Piper found his wife…” admitted Marq with a smug grin.  
  
More laughter engulfed the table, this time including Aunt Jeyne in as restrained a manner as she could.  
  
Uncle Brynden continued, “See, each symbol of a house gives each house a sense of history and identity. For Brackens it’s the prized stallion the Blackwoods killed. For Blackwoods it’s the weirwood tree they poisoned. For Freys… well the tolls from that bloody bridge are how you’ve managed to keep all hundred of you alive on such poor lands so near the Neck. Goodbrooks have their little brook on a field of gold, for the wheat that grows around their little brook. An Eagle saved the life of the first Mallister, to hear your father tell the tale, Patrek. Ryger, what’s the story behind your Willow tree?”  
  
“Our lands are full of them,” answered the boy.  
  
“And the dragon and gatehouse of the Vances?” asked Uncle Brynden to Ronald and Hugo.  
  
“The Targaryens gave us Atranta, which was little more than a gatehouse before it became our seat,” admitted Ronald.  
  
“A silver trout for that was how the first Tully decided where to build Riverrun back in the days when the Mudds ruled the Riverlands… he had a dream that where he caught a silver trout was where he'd build his keep, and it wasn't until he came to the fork where the Tumblestone meets the Red Fork that he did so,” offered Uncle Brynden.  
  
“The plowman for the most fertile lands in the Riverlands,” added Aunt Jeyne.  
  
“The Greyjoy kraken inspires fear,” mentioned Asha at long last, and suddenly the good humor in the room drained completely in an instant at her words.  
  
“Aye… for the sailors at sea that one does…” admitted Uncle Brynden, who then recovered and said, “And now that I’ve done the Maester’s work for him this evening let’s say our prayers and be done with this meal.”  
  
After the meal had ended, Edmure heard his Aunt Jeyne turn to Asha and say, “I have a few bolts of fabric that I’ve brought with me from Castle Darry. But I was wondering if you could help me, as I know not which shade of Black is the right shade for your house.”  
  
“There’s different shades of black?” asked Asha with true confusion.  
  
“Aye, there are many many different shades of black. Why compare your hair and your eyes—both are as black as can be, but your eyes are just a tad lighter than your hair. I would not want to get the wrong shade of black for your house, so if you could be so good as to help me pick out the right shade, I would be ever so grateful,” said Aunt Jeyne with an odd sense about her, which struck Edmure as slightly off.  
  
“All right…” admitted Asha tentatively.  
  
Soon after that, Edmure saw less and less of Asha, as she became more and more involved in helping to make her own set of breeches and doublet, as her impatience to see her own clothes made, and Aunt Jeyne’s turtle pace at making them eventually inspired the young squid to offer to help if she could. And suddenly Edmure finally understood his new Aunt’s ploy. Where the Septa had ordered Asha to learn how to sew and learn her way about a needle, Aunt Jeyne framed everything as Asha being a tremendous help to her. Edmure saw when Asha wasn’t looking that his newly acquired Aunt was not as slow or plodding as she pretended to be with sewing. She merely went that speed to entice Asha into learning what womanly arts she’d balked at learning under the Septa.  
  
Slowly the moons passed along and slowly Asha’s new breeches and doublet came together. The questioning of the positioning of the Kraken’s many arms being the reason which taught Asha how to embroider, and though the result was a slightly knotty Kraken, Asha was rather proud of her work in the end—for it was hers. Aunt Jeyne of course found other methods of coaxing Asha into at least understanding the basics of other womanly craft—as Edmure suspected she knew that playing dumb would not work for forever. Edmure of course found his Aunt’s methods to be quite clever to outwit the normally crafty Asha, and for that reason he said nothing to dispel their effectiveness on the girl squid. And besides, the less time Asha had to practice with her throwing knives and bow and arrows, the more he had to surpass her aim—though on occasion he would tease her about growing rusty simply to maintain her competitive edge. He didn’t like the idea of her being too womanly, but his Aunt had the right of it thinking she at least needed to learn the basics.  
  
It was about the time Asha went around boasting of her handiwork at having made a shirt for herself that much to Edmure’s surprise his Aunt had quickened to quite a large size with child. Not long thereafter did House Tully gain a new member by the name of Vylott. Vylott was red of hair, but had her mother’s murky blue eyes instead of the shining Tully ones. And Uncle Brynden was a completely different man than Edmure had ever seen him as he held his daughter.  
  
And it was not long after that that news from Harrenhal came, a child of the missing Master Oswell Whent had been found in Essos and the baby boy and his mother was to be taken in by Lady Shella. Edmure of course took note of this for the Whent babe shared his own name—which Edmure learned was in honor of his mother’s brother, the late Lord Edmure Whent of Harrenhal—Shella’s grandfather. And with Lysa pregnant in the Vale, and Cat writing she hoped to have yet another wolf pup for her growing pack up in the North, to Edmure it seemed the whole of Westeros was having babes.


	23. Oberyn II

**OBERYN**  
  
“Lover, do you not think this boy is rather _too_ pretty?” whispered Ellaria in his ear as he eased her onto the bed.  
  
“If he be pretty enough to tempt you, then we can certainly share him,” he whispered into Ellaria’s ear as he drew her close to his naked body.  
  
Although she had whispered to him her fantasies of sharing their bed with others of each gender, she apparently did not think that he would take her request seriously. Anything to please his lover, well and his cock too. The fact that the boy was almost feminine in appearance added to his appeal. Oberyn had been with a few boys before—after all, why limit oneself to simply half the human population when the delights of the other yet remained to take advantage of?—but never in this situation, and the thought of sharing someone with Ellaria made him grow hard. She drove him wild to such a degree that he wanted to share everything with her.  
  
Ellaria had been especially aroused lately as she swelled with his child—the first of many he hoped his paramour to swell with. He would love their daughters and take care of them, but unlike his four eldest daughters, he had little desire thinking of taking this one away from her mother. In fact he wanted to raise this one and all the ones to come with Ellaria. Although he had never been tempted by the limitations of a traditional Westerosi marriage, he began to suspect that this might be what he heard some men speak of when they spoke of the desire one woman could inspire.  
  
 _Seven Hells, I almost feel a decade younger with her…_  
  
The boy began his paid work first by caressing her slowly up her inner thighs—still not yet understanding that he was there to pleasure them both, but Oberyn was not greedy—Ellaria labored enough carrying his child, she deserved most of the attention to begin with. So while the boy focused below he cradled her relaxing upper body in his arms and began nibbling her neck and massaging her swelling breasts. She leaned back her head onto his shoulder and moaned at the attentions given to her. Yes, he was not greedy, but he was not self-effacing either. After she had had her fill—then he would demand more from the boy for himself.  
  
But unfortunately Oberyn got all the arousal and none of the satisfaction, as just as Ellaria was to be satiated, Oberyn was called away to deal with the arrival of some Northern lady who insisted on speaking with him.  
  
Rather upset, he promised Ellaria and the boy that he would return, emphasizing to the boy that he expected as much from him as he gave to Ellaria in his absence. He slipped into a pair of breeches, then strapped on his sandals, and threw on a fine silk robe. He then lit an oil lamp and left Ellaria’s chambers.  
  
 _This better be important… or the Bloody Wolf will have one very upset Dornishwoman to deal with…_  
  
As he made his way towards his private solar, where the supposed Northern woman awaited him he happened to run into a woman, dressed in her shift stumbling about the halls, muttering to herself. Oberyn felt for where his dagger was usually strapped to him, but in his irritation he had forgotten to strap it back on. However his concern faded as the woman drew closer—oddly not seeming to notice him as though she were lost in her own thoughts—and he could more clearly make out that it was in fact Lady Lannister. She looked haggered as she stumbled about, and the closer she came Oberyn could smell the scent of wine about her.   
  
As she drew closer, Oberyn also could better make out her nonsensical mumblings, “Melara… Jeyne… am I next? No… I haven’t seen my children die…”  
  
She was speaking utter nonsense and was likely drunk. When she was within arm’s reach, Oberyn caught hold of her arm, alerting the lady to his presence for the first time. She let out a little scream but then seemed to recognize him a moment later.  
  
“Oh… Prince Oberyn…” she said as she then burst into uncanny laughter.  
  
“My Lady Lannister, what are you doing roaming the halls at this time of night?” asked Oberyn  
  
“If I don’t stay in my rooms, then Maggy can’t kill me…” she spoke in a nonsensical manner. Her breath stank of wine.  
  
“You’re in the Red Keep, my lady, no one can harm you…” he reminded her.  
  
 _Comforting this treacherous lion cub? Her father nearly killed Elia! No… the eunuch’s a greater threat to Elia and Rhaenys._  
  
“She killed Melara… and now Jeyne too… I’m next… I’m next!” screeched the lioness as she tried to fight from his grip to run.  
  
The lady was clearly driving herself mad—and that would have to stop.  
  
“Lady Lannister, listen to me. If you do not feel safe here, then go home. Go back to Casterly Rock,” he tried to command some sense into her.  
  
“But that’s where Maggy is…” whined the lady lioness.  
  
“Then stay here, if you feel safer. But one thing you will not do is wander the halls alone and unattended. If you wish to be killed, that is one way to ensure it will happen,” emphasized Oberyn, and then he let go of the Lannister woman and continued on his way.  
  
When he arrived at his private solar he saw the woman waiting there was large, bulky and with hair that appeared to have been shaved off but was now beginning to grow back once again. She startled at his entrance, but once seeing him she stood. She was dressed in rough hewed breeches and tunic that held no sign of rank upon them. Oberyn assumed therefore that she was one of the smallfolk. When she stood she towered over him by a nearly half a head and gave a respectable nod of her head. As she stood Oberyn saw that she held in her arms a babe, which seemed asleep, the reason he had not seen the child before being that the table she sat at had hidden her arms from view.  
  
“Prince Oberyn,” she said in her rough Northern accent.  
  
“I fear you have me at a loss, for I know not to whom I am speaking,” replied Oberyn. Her manner of dress said smallfolk, but her behavior said highborn.  
  
“I suppose that would help matters some. My name is Lady Maege Mormont, sister to Lord Jeor Mormont of Bear Island.”  
  
 _Bear Island…_  
  
For the life of Oberyn he tried to remember some of the small council meetings from over a year ago when the King had returned from Lannisport. Hadn’t Stark said that his sworn lord’s sister been taken from Bear Island?  
  
“My lady, forgive me for not recognizing you earlier,” he replied politely, and then indicating for her to take a seat once more he moved to a table where a servant had left a small plate of biscuits and a flagon of wine between the arrival of the lady and coming for him. She had not taken any he saw, and being a gracious host, Oberyn took a small plate, put a few biscuits on it and poured some wine into two goblets.   
  
“I would not expect to recognize myself were I able to look in a piece of Myrish glass,” japed the woman weakly.  
  
  
He then brought over the vittles and drink to the table where Lady Maege had taken refuge. She seemed hesitant to take a sip at first, but eventually was drinking well enough to put Oberyn at some ease. She thanked him.  
  
“So tell me, why am I receiving the sister of a bannerman to the Bloody Wolf?” asked Oberyn. Lady Maege looked at him oddly.  
  
“Bloody wolf?” asked Lady Maege as she gave him an odd look. At this her infant did moan and murmur and Oberyn let her see to her child's attentions before continuing.  
  
“It is a name that your liege has earned in the wars down here in the South. Word of it likely did not reach you before you… disappeared,” said Oberyn smoothly.  
  
“Aye, that is likely. It is about my disappearance that I am here to speak with you Prince Oberyn. Well, that and a mutual friend of ours in Essos,” said Lady Maege.  
  
 _Mutual—Oswell! Though for all I know it could be someone else._  
  
Oberyn asked, careful to forge his face in a steely mask, “Tell me, my lady, who is this mutual friend which you speak of?”  
  
She stated simply, “Master Oswell Whent.”  
  
Oberyn schooled his face to not give any hint away that he was overly concerned.   
  
_She may play the part of a Northwoman, but how do I know she’s not another of Varys’ little mice?_  
  
“And what did Master Oswell say?” asked Oberyn.  
  
“He said nothing, the fact is, my Prince that the man is missing.”  
  
At this his mask slipped somewhat, “Missing?”  
  
She nodded her head and said, “Aye, he was helping me and several other people escape the spider’s grasp in Pentos. He got us to the dock and urged us all aboard and then… he never got on board the boat.”  
  
“What do you mean?” he challenged.  
  
“One minute he was there on the dock speaking to a boy and girl he helped escape from the city, and the next he was gone. We had not time to search the decks before the captain was to make sail once we realized he’d not come aboard,” said Lady Maege with great concern.  
  
“I would speak to this boy and girl you say he spoke with last. Did they accompany you?” inquired Oberyn.  
  
“Aye… your men showed us all to a different room before bringing me here,” she answered easily.  
  
“Good, I’ll speak with them in the morning then. Now, about your—” Oberyn though was interrupted.  
  
Lady Maege interjected, “If I may, I would suggest seeing the boy alone.”  
  
“And why is that?” he asked.  
  
“He… well, he has an uncanny likeness to yourself,” answered the Mormont lady.  
  
Oberyn felt one of his eyebrows raise involuntarily.  
  
 _Obara could yet have her wish._  
  
“You avoid your other point, my lady.”  
  
“My disappearance… aye… well, it is hard to speak about… and is something I would rather forget...”  
  
“Go on,” urged Prince Oberyn.  
  
After finishing her goblet she seemed to have gathered enough courage to speak once again, saying, “I was abducted along with every man and woman of Bear Cove by Euron Greyjoy. He heard of Lord Eddard’s plan to take Bear Cove by surprise from his people who yet live in the Iron Isles.”  
  
 _That was to be expected… Seven help if all the islands aren’t secretly aiding that fiend…_  
  
She then said, “He held us prisoner aboard his ship of mutes. He cut out the tongues of all the men and beat them until they were little more than more mutes to fill out his crew. The women… gods… he called them salt wives and raped each one. Oddly enough he had some amount of decency to him in that he didn’t rape the women quick with child, like I was with little Lyra here, but he was merciless to the rest of my people. And the worst part of it all was that he made me watch each tongue he cut and each woman he raped. Since he couldn’t have me, he thought to… break my spirit. I had to watch as each one of my people he took from Bear Island were… tortured. I tried to organize some kind of resistance but his mute crew were too loyal…”   
  
She paused here to take a deep breath before continuing, “Eventually we made land somewhere in the Stepstones. He has some connections with the pirates there, and they were more than willing to take him in so he could bid his time and build up a fleet to retake the Iron Islands when it was time.”  
  
 _The Stepstones! Well, the King ought to find this information useful… Seven help us if we’re not at war over them soon enough…_  
  
“Feeding all of us proved to be a problem after a time, and so he began to start selling some of the women to slavers who make port in the Stepstones. I put myself first, hoping to spare as many of my women such a life as I could. I was then shaved and beaten aboard the slave ship and sold in Pentos to a man named Illyrio for his new wife. Illyrio has connections with the Spider or Rat King as they call him in Pentos, and it was through them that I met Oswell by chance one evening.”  
  
Oberyn took a swig of his own wine, chilled a bit by its telling. Knowing no woman would tell such a tale he then said, “My lady, my sincerest apologies for all that you’ve had to endure.”  
  
This however did not sit well with the woman, whose face contorted slightly as she then huffed, “I don’t need your apologies, I need you to tell me you’re going to put that bloody bastard’s head upon a pike and carry it through all the Iron Islands!”  
  
Oberyn smirked and then said, “That might take some time, but with your assistance, I am sure we can have occur sooner than later.”  
  
He then escorted Lady Maege back to the chambers where she and her companions had been brought upon their arrival. Curious, he entered the room to find that many large pillows had been distributed about the room in piles, creating makeshift beds in an otherwise bare chamber. As Lady Maege settled her young daughter and herself on the only empty pile, Oberyn decided to take a look at this boy who bore such a resemblance to himself. He nearly dropped the oil lamp when he did.  
  
 _Seven Hells…_  
  
The boy had dyed his hair violet, but other than that, the resemblance was undeniable. In many ways it was like seeing the specter of himself at a younger age. Not wishing to wake the boy—what was his name? Who was his mother? Pentos… likely Andella or was it mayhaps Valencia?—he left without disturbing him… his son. Oberyn felt an odd sort of feeling well up inside of him. He had a son. After finding only girls he’d thought himself unlikely to have a boy—considering it an odd trick of the Seven—but he did have a son.  
  
 _I owe Oswell a great debt for finding him… and I will see it paid. I will find him!_


	24. Arthur III

**ARTHUR**  
  
It hadn’t taken long for Sandor to once again grow moody and think about possible ways his sister’s marriage could have been undone. A lot of them featured Arthur challenging Stafford to some kind of duel of honor or going before the King and making a complaint, or through Lord Stark to the King. Forget the fact that Stafford stayed by the law and was free to do as he pleased with his wards. Forget that the current King wanted nothing to do with him and had had to be convinced not to send him to the Wall, and that Arthur would rather go to a dog than him. Forget the fact that the keep had been filled with Lannister men sworn to defend Stafford and Tyrion should some “threat” arise. Could he take one man? Aye. A few men? Sure, with a bit more difficulty. But a whole slew of them? Nay, that would only have gotten him killed at best, to the Wall if he somehow managed to live, and either scenario would only have landed Sandor right at Casterly Rock.  
  
Could he have done more? Mayhaps—people can always do more, Arthur supposed. Mayhaps he could have asked Calena what she wanted and how it had come about—had he had a chance given that Ser Vikary had been reluctant to leave his bride’s side the way he had fawned over her. Yet as much as Sandor liked to stew on all the possibilities, nothing could change the fact that she had signed the marriage contract and then promptly shared Ser Vikary’s bed. No matter the pretense, these were unshakable facts that the High Septon would not ignore. And what had he done? He who had been Sword of the Morning and donned a White Cloak not so long ago? Who’d had both stripped from him from failing to follow his vows of one sort of the other… he’d had wine. Seven hells he hated this craving. This was why he was out here in the middle of the night with the wine left after the wedding, pouring it out onto the grass—as much as it had pained him, it had to be done. He did not like himself when he drank.  
  
“What are you doing, Master Arthur?” asked a voice, and Arthur turned around to see the child bride herself standing at the doorway to the keep. She had a large shawl wrapped around her but in her shift she looked younger than her true age.  
  
“I’m ridding myself of a temptation, my Lady,” answered Arthur as he let the last bottle drain to the last drop.  
  
The child lady of the keep said nothing more before she surprisingly joined himself out in the grass and began picking up the empty glass bottles.  
  
Helena was an odd girl. She was quiet and obliging, even when she should be otherwise.  
  
“Could you not sleep?” he asked as she picked up the last bottle she could carry. He then held open the satchel he had brought the bottles in and she placed them inside as delicately as she had picked them up.  
  
“No…” she answered honestly.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I think too much,” was her simple reply as she placed the last one into the satchel. The bottles would be saved for other things—good glass such as these were something only a noble lord could afford and were hard to come by.  
  
“What do you think about?” he asked her.  
  
She bites her lip for a moment before responding, quite honestly, “About everything I’ve done wrong in my life.”  
  
He looked at the child as if she had grown a second head for a moment before asking, “And what have you managed to do wrong in your… what is it, ten or one and ten namedays?”  
  
“I’ll be two and ten with the next moon,” affirmed Helena calmly before continuing as though kneeling before a Septon to admit her wrongs, “I’ve done many things wrong. Once I stole a bit of parchment from my father’s study so I could draw as I liked. I told my mother that I hated her a few times. I once became so angry with my brother that when he tripped and fell, and twisted his ankle I did not feel sorry he had done so—”  
  
“These are all meaningless offenses,” Arthur interjected.  
  
She continued by saying, “They’re still things I did wrong.”  
  
“If you go on punishing yourself for things you’ve done wrong all you’ll up in life is . At some point you have to try to forget…”  
  
“I thought that by becoming a Septa I could forget. That once I took the vows and blessings of the Seven holy oils I could wash away my wrongs,” continued the girl, rather seriously for one so young. It was very unnerving, almost like he was speaking with an adult in miniature form, rather than an actual child.  
  
“Is that what you wanted?” asked Arthur  
  
“I don’t know. It’s what my Septa told me I should hope for since it was unlikely that father would find a match for me,” answered Helena seriously.  
  
Then the Ironborn made your value as a bride rise…  
  
“Do you still wish to be a Septa?” asked Arthur.  
  
The girl did not answer his question, only wishing him a good night as she took her leave.  
  
 _Gods… she’s had her childhood stripped from her, first by her Septa, then the Ironborn, and finally her brother…_  
  
Arthur took care to observe the young Helena Clegane as the moons passed as she became two and ten and went about her tasks about the keep. Each morning she would rise early to see that the cook was preparing meals right—often obliging to chase down the cook’s wastrel of a boy, who Seven blessings was a few namedays her junior, or else the lad would hardly take the young child wife of “Lord Sandor” seriously. After which she saw to it that the table was laid out so that fast could be broken, helped the servants clean up, and then she typically spent time out in a small garden she’d started or playing with her young nephew. Young Conhur was growing quite large and seemed on the whole thus far to have more of his mother’s sweetness than whichever of his fathers’ traits. The toddler had enchanted nearly everyone in the keep, even the grungy Murchadh—who let the toddler play in the pile of furs he was cleaning this morning. That these times corresponded to when Sandor and Arthur—when the boy was not out hunting with Murchadh—took to practicing, Arthur took note of. When Arthur was busy checking Sandor’s form, Arthur would often catch Helena staring at her barely two namedays elder husband. He’d grown tall within the last year, and was almost equal height to Arthur.  
  
This particular morning his would-be squire finally bested him in one of their practice matches.  
  
“You’re learning, at long last,” admitted Arthur as the blunted steel sword stayed by his neck.  
  
Sandor nodded, put down his sword and taking a step backward moved into the beginning position once again, eagerly stating, “Again.”  
  
“No… I think we have had enough sparring for this morning. Practice your archery if you wish, the Seven know you can barely hit the broadside of a barn. Stay here, I’ll get them for you,” said Arthur, and he took Sandor’s blunted sword from him and put both practice weapons away in the shed that served as the keep’s makeshift armory. As he left, Arthur could see that Helena for the first time in all her times outside, decided to take this opportunity to approach Sandor—who was still scowling after him for suggesting he practice archery, if Arthur knew the boy as well as he thought.  
  
At a distance, Arthur heard Helena say to Sandor, “You did quite well this morning.”  
  
As was typical, his would-be squire grunted a response so low in tone, that Arthur could not hear it at a distance.  
  
Helena assured, “It’s true, though. I’m not just saying it to be kind.”  
  
“Thank you,” replied Sandor gruffly.  
  
“Will you then be practicing your archery, then?” asked Helena  
  
“Mayhaps,” grumbled Sandor, after this Arthur closed the shed, bow and arrows in hand and began his trek back to his would-be squire.  
  
It was just at that moment that Conhur, tired of playing in the furs toddled over to Helena and tugged at her skirt to be picked up, which she obliged. Arthur stood and watched then as Helena picked up Conhur. Oddly enough Sandor could not help from staring as she did so, his apparently earlier instinct to leave having completely left his mind. The babe then snuggled into Helena’s arms and rested his head on her shoulder, sticking his thumb into his mouth.  
  
“I think he is tired, my lord…” said Helena  
  
“I’ll take him—” began Sandor as he reached for his nephew, grabbing him under his arms.  
  
Doing so caused the toddler to scream and root around and wave his chubby little arms at Sandor shouting one of his favorite words, “No!”  
  
“I have him,” assured Helena as the toddler clutched more firmly to his Aunt and began to whimper. Sandor withdrew his hands and Helena took the simpering toddler into the Keep.  
  
It was at this point Arthur had rejoined his would-be squire, bringing with him a set of bow and arrows, which he handed to Sandor, who continued to stare at the door to the Keep.  
  
“He likes her more than he does me.”  
  
“Mayhaps you should spend less time hunting and more time with your nephew, if that bothers you so much,” said Arthur pointedly.  
  
Sandor merely grabbed the bow and quiver from Arthur and stormed off to the makeshift range that Arthur had set up at the far side of the keep.  
  
And over the following few moons Arthur saw Sandor pay more attention to his nephew, even when the toddler was with Helena. It was almost laughable watching Sandor play with his nephew, whose favorite toy was a small wooden ball he liked to roll across the ground or across the floor of the keep. Sandor went about it as though he were scared something might happen any moment, but once he had grown used to doing so, he played with Conhur rather carefree in a manner that Arthur had not seen from the young Clegane in all his time at the keep. Sometimes even Conhur insisted that Helena play too—rolling the wooden ball at her feet when he desired her to put down her sewing and join him and Sandor. After a few insistent attempts made by the toddler and rough apologies from Sandor for disturbing her, she would typically give in and settle upon the ground so that the three of them were in a triangle and could roll the ball back and forth between each other, quite delighting the toddler. It was during these times especially that Arthur saw Sandor let down whatever guard he had with Helena the rest of the time and the three children—despite their varying ages, could simply be children, which was something of a relief for Arthur to see.  
  
It was when news came of Sandor’s sister giving birth to a girl named Lymera that the ease into which they had settled was disturbed once again, prompting Sandor to once again retreat to hunting for many days at a time, and for both Conhur and Helena to feel confused and alone.


	25. Oswell VI

**OSWELL**  
  
The last thing he remembered was being on the docks, and then darkness. From the pain in his head he felt when he’d regained what consciousness he had left, someone must have knocked him out from behind and brought him to this… dungeon or wherever he was being kept. It was much like the black cells—not a single source of light penetrated the room, and soon his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. To the sight of mice and rats scurrying in the dark corners, the sounds of footsteps overhead and indistinct voices he could never quite make out. He was given food once or mayhaps twice a day. It was enough to keep him living, but not enough to help him pull his chains free. He was chained, by both hands and feet to a wall with some length to allow him to reach a slosh bucket to relieve himself, but not much more. In the beginning all he could think of was ways to escape, but when that proved fruitless, he considered his actions before he had been taken out by whomever at the dock. He had made a mistake somewhere. Had the servants at Illyrio’s manse gone running when he’d fetched Lady Mormont’s babe? Or was it the harbor master he’d helped install who’d betrayed him? Questions were his sole existence and his bane as he repeated them over and over again in his mind, until he felt he soon forgot which was the truth and what were his imaginations.  
  
He was visited for each meal by a woman—a different woman each time. They did not speak, they merely brought the food, used his blindness to the torch they brought to get a good look over his body, which had been left only in its small clothes, replaced the slosh bucket with a fresh one, gave him a wineskin full of water, and took the bowls of stew or mash or whatever slop they had brought him to eat away. Oddly enough they did not look like servants, though they acted in the role of one. He found out why one evening when a man came and tightened his chains so that he was held prostrate against the wall. He’d tried to fight, but by that point it was useless because he felt so weak. And then the woman arrived and fed him the bowl, and afterwards… Seven Hells he’d never been so humiliated. He had heard of men taking women without their consent, but never in all his life, had he ever considered that the reverse might be possible… and yet, it was. Meal after meal it was true for him.  
  
It was then that Oswell lost all hope of ever escaping. He tried to refuse food, with hopes that he would starve instead of being used in this ill manner, but as he grew weaker with hunger, he was less able to put up a fight and so they would feed him. He would regain his strength enough to resist, but then grow weaker from starvation to the point where it turned into a bloody endless cycle.  
  
For what crime was he being punished? He could not comprehend any that he had committed beyond the one the King had commanded. Or was it instead for having turned a blind eye all those years to Aerys’ madness? More questions plagued his vile existence.  
  
After what had felt like an eternity, he at long last received a visit from Varys himself. He came dressed in an identity obscuring robe, but once in the cell he pulled down his hood to reveal his bald and this time hairless fat face. He placed the torch in a nearby holder and then pulled up a stool that was in the far corner to sit down before Oswell’s pitiful form.  
  
“Really, I feel I must apologize as I had no idea you weren’t on that boat,” said Varys blithely.  
  
Oswell glared at the eunuch. He dared play the innocent in this situation?!  
  
“The Seven curse you for the liar you are!” declared Oswell as best he could after spitting on Varys’ face.  
  
The eunuch merely wiped away the spittle, and continued in what seemed to Oswell to be falsely earnest, “Truly, if I had my way right now, you would be in King’s Landing assisting the last of my little mice in settling in to the city. But Illyrio did not take so kindly to your dismissal of his wishes. I had prepared for either case should you have passed or failed the test—”  
  
“Test?” asked Oswell.  
  
“You don’t think that you were given assignments against less than honorable persons for a year by mere chance, now do you? That the overly moral court minstrel should have offended Illyrio seemed such a fortuitous opportunity to test whether you truly had abandoned that cloak of yours,” said the spider with a smirk.  
  
“And yet you claim that you had nothing to do with my capture?” asked Oswell with obvious disbelief.  
  
Varys nodded his head and replied, “Aye. If you were to have been loyal to me, I would have an assassin worth more than most. And if you were to turn your cloak on me, I had given orders for the last of my little mice to scurry after you and when you left Westeros to follow and take control of my little birds, all while under your own protection, of course.”  
  
“Lysenia…” muttered Oswell, suddenly realizing how oddly she had appeared that night, just as he was to leave.  
  
Varys oddly enough smiled and said, “She is one, aye.”  
  
“How long has it been?” asked Oswell.  
  
Varys’ countenance oddly enough became displeased, “Well over a year. I told Lysenia to contact me in a year’s time once things had settled down and she’d established herself. When she mentioned that you had not boarded the ship, I became worried. And so I set about looking to see where you might have disappeared to. For some time I simply thought you likely to have been killed, but then I discovered this little place not but a week ago. I confronted Illyrio about it immediately and let me tell you that he took the slight of helping that minstrel and his wife’s servant to escape quite personally. He told me all about it, saying that since we had lost the last of our little mice, he thought that I might appreciate a flock of little bats to add to my collection.”  
  
Oswell added, “So like a horse, I’ve been put out to stud?”  
  
This made Varys grin, “Indeed, and quite a flock you’ve produced already. One has already given birth—to a boy who is most like you in countenance I must say. Several others have swollen, and many more have stopped bleeding—but that’s never a strict sign from what I recall.”  
  
“Why are you here?” asked Oswell, feeling pained at the thought of children—children he’d never expected to have—in Varys’ clutches.  
  
“Believe it or not, to set you free,” said the eunuch as he pulled out of his robe sleeves a small vial of black liquid.  
  
“Don’t play with your food before you eat it, spider, it might just fly away,” scoffed Oswell.  
  
The spider smirked, and said, “That’s one thing I will miss, Oswell. Your humor… Hopefully one of the little bats will have it.” He then slackened the chain to Oswell’s right arm, and placed the vial into Oswell’s hand, squeezing Oswell’s hand into a fist around it. He then said, quite seriously, “I am not playing… drink this, and your bonds to this life will be set free. You will simply go to sleep and never wake up again—that is untraceable, so it will appear as if you had died of starvation or what have you.”  
  
“Why would you see me dead? Won’t that disrupt the number of little bats you need?” asked Oswell. If he was to die, he would know the truth, or at least whatever version of it Varys had prepared for him.  
  
“Given that I have nearly fifty likely little bats, I have no shortage even if only half their number live,” answered Varys  
  
 _Nearly fifty?! Seven hells…_  
  
“You would have me choose death then?” asked Oswell.  
  
“When there is such little left to live for, t’would be better to find peace would it not then live eternally in these Seven Hells. Believe it or not, I do not agree at all with my friend’s methods of either procuring or punishing. But believe me when I say this that your Stranger will come for you either in this vial or in the tortures left in this life at Illyrio’s hands. Either way there is no escape for you from this dungeon… and I would not take from you the final honor a man has in life,” admitted the spider in an oddly blunt tone.  
  
“Then break with him, if you truly feel that way,” insisted Oswell.  
  
“Knowing how he treats others who slight him? And when I have so few friends left to me? I am afraid I shall have to put aside that suggestion. I have tangled my web with his far too much to do so at this juncture. Mayhaps at another I’ll find it easier.”  
  
Oswell stared at the vial in his hand which contained the escape he so wished for—but as he did he could not help but remember a better time when he had been happy to play as a child with his brother and sister…  
  
 _Edmure… Minisa… I will be with you both soon… but first I must do something…_  
  
“I never thought I would have children… and now I’m to die without even seeing them,” stated Oswell, and then trying to give something for the son he had but would never see, he said, “I would make one request.”  
  
“And that would be?” asked the Spider  
  
Oswell declared rather than requested, “My son, the one who is already born, his name is Edmure… after my brother…”  
  
With a smile, Varys said, “Let it be so.”  
  
 _May he be inspired to learn of my brother and my family, and doing so come to know our honor. Then may he question whatever orders you give him…_  
  
Varys then continued, “One thing I can promise you, Oswell, is that little Edmure will be spared a life in Essos, but few of his siblings will.”  
  
“What are your plans with one of my blood?” snapped Oswell, worried at the sound of this admission.  
  
Varys seemed to contemplate this before speaking, “Despite my disagreement with my friend, I cannot help but see its usefulness. Since I no longer live in the capital myself, a nest for my little birds to fly to in Westeros is required… and conveniently enough, there is no other castle more centrally located than Harrenhal. There remains the issue of your grandniece, but I am sure she would not resist taking in the wife and son of her dear old great-uncle who died serving his King, now would she?”  
  
“My wife?!” exclaimed Oswell with disbelief. To think of one of those vile creatures living at Harrenhal, raising his blood… the thought angered him.  
  
“You used your helmet in place of a cloak for the ceremony, marrying her when you learned she was carrying your child just before you went on your last mission from which you never returned. Quite a touching piece to the song, don’t you think?” added Varys.  
  
Oswell pulled at his chains, but the spider had retreated before he could react. He could not bear to hear any more, and so he brought the vial to his mouth tore out the cork with his teeth and drank its contents whole. Soon everything began to grow darker—even darker than the dungeon without a torch—and then he felt the cold.


	26. Denys III

**DENYS**  
  
“Tell me Stranger of the night,  
Who walks in shadows, not the light,  
If my dear ones are at peace,  
Or if they wander the world, never to cease.”  
  
Denys repeated the Stranger’s prayer with each candle he lit—one for Annalys, a second for Jasper, a third for Jon, and a fourth for his child who’d died before being born. In the past few weeks since he had left the Vale, Denys had begun to have nightmares which would leave him awake in a cold sweat. Lysa had unfortunately become accustomed to these nightly terrors and he to the comfort she gave in response to them, though he hated for her to lose her sleep. The nightmares were the same each time. It always began with the last night he spent with Annalys in their tiny keep of Ironwings, halfway between the Eyrie and Iron Oaks. It had been their last coupling before he had gone off to follow Jon to war after Elbert’s death.  
  
 _“Must you go?” she had asked grabbing at his arm._  
  
 _“You know the answer,” he replied leaning in for a tender kiss._  
  
 _“Hopefully Jasper will not be a man grown when you return,” she teased after their lips and tongues had parted._  
  
 _“If Jasper have a beard on his chin when I return, then I shall leave the lordship to him… and spend the rest of my days… having you… all to myself…” he enticed with more kisses trailing down from her lips to her neck._  
  
 _“Wicked man! The Seven shall punish you for such thoughts!” japed Annalys with a playful slap to his chest._  
  
 _“If it be wicked to love one’s wife, then many men are guilty, I am afraid,” he replied before giving one last kiss and rolling himself out of the bed so he could dress himself._  
  
 _“But you will return, won’t you?” asked Annalys, suddenly seeming much younger than her years, grabbing his hand._  
  
 _“I cannot promise you that, and I would not have you cling to an endless hope…” he answered quite soberly._  
  
 _And suddenly as he stood up he was standing over her death bed, their young son clinging to her, both pale with skin marked by the red crusty marks of the pox. Their breaths rattled, strained and weakened, with only a well-covered Lorra there to nurse them._  
  
 _“When will Denys come, Lorra?” moaned Annalys weakly._  
  
 _“Soon… very soon…” promised Lorra as she wiped her brow._  
  
 _“You hear that Jasper… your father will be home soon…” coughed Annalys_  
  
 _All his young son could do was groan in response and strain trying to open his eyes—but when he did, that is when the nightmare truly began. For Jasper’s eyes were not the bright blue they’d been of his life, but instead completely black orbs void of any color, staring straight at him. Then he turned to Annalys and similarly her eyes had gone completely black as well, their heads suddenly turning to face where he stood._  
  
 _“When will you come home?” they both asked in eerie unison._  
  
 _At this Denys would begin to back away from the bed, a deeply unsettling feeling overtaking him._  
  
 _“Come home…” they said again, this time reaching out for him._  
  
 _He would then back into Lorra, who had somehow gone from sitting upon the bed to standing right behind him, perched like a falcon on a chest of drawers._  
  
 _“She died waiting for you, loving you in her own foolish way. And what did you do as soon as you heard she was dead?”_  
  
 _He would back away then from Lorra and then bump into a bloodied Jon—a broken spear through his chest—standing quite straight and holding on to the bed post._  
  
 _Jon commanded, “Build a world in which you would want them to live…”_  
  
 _“Home…” they repeated, their hands drawing closer._  
  
 _“And what did you do?” repeated Lorra’s shifting form until it had transformed into a falcon and began to peck at him._  
  
 _“Build…” ordered Jon, his figure growing more imposing as he seemed to transform into a living statue._  
  
 _“Home!”_  
  
 _“And what did you do?”_  
  
And that was when he would awake, drenched in sweat, panting, wild with fear, and sit up to catch his bearings.  
  
At first he thought the dreams would go away with time, but as the weeks passed they only became more frequent, until he was at long last forced to seek the aid of the Seven. After the deaths of Annalys, Jasper, and Jon, Denys had gone to nearby Septs for weeks to light candles and pray to the Stranger for ease of their passing. But once the issue of the Westerlands had arisen, Denys had become less observant. So now Denys had returned to praying and lighting candles before the Stranger—and yet the dreams grew worse…  
  
 _What have I done?_  
  
He finishes his silent addendum in front of the stone carving of the cloaked Stranger, his four candles lit and burning quite oddly bright. Suddenly for the first time in months he thinks he sees something in the flames once again—eyes, but just as he realizes that he wasn’t seeing things Denys hears a boot step directly behind him. Denys, remaining on his knees, turned his head to see Lord Stannis standing directly behind him staring at him with a confused glance though obviously intent on speaking with him.  
  
Denys rises and then, preserving the silence of the Sept as much as he can, he approaches Stannis and then motions for them to leave the Sept to speak. As they approach the doors, the Septon passes with an incense lamp chanting in High Valyrian, renewing the holy prayers sanctifying and blessing the Sept.  
  
After taking in a heady breath of incense, they managed to leave the Red Keep’s private Sept and began speaking once they were standing outside its colored glass and metal doors.  
  
“Lord Denys, I was told I would be able to find with you here,” stated Stannis awkwardly.  
  
“Is something bothering you? You seem troubled…” commented Denys.  
  
“I have not been in a Sept for some time…” admitted Stannis honestly.  
  
“Do you not keep the Faith?” asked Denys concernedly.  
  
“I do not. I have not since…” Stannis trailed off, seemingly unable to finish his own thought.  
  
“Since the death of your parents?” guessed Denys.  
  
After a moment of silence, Stannis admitted, “Aye.”  
  
Denys, touched by the young lord’s honesty, added, “I know what it is like to have lost those dear to you… it is a hard trial to bear. One that never ceases to leave us, despite the world requiring it do so. Time is given to grieve… but it never seems to be enough.”  
  
At this Stannis looked almost incredulously at Denys before admitting, “It is a hard trial, but the subject of grief is not what I wished to speak on with you.”  
  
“Then speak. You have my full attention,” said Denys.  
  
“To my knowledge you have the ability to bestow Lady Waynwood’s hand in marriage,” began the somber stag quite formally.  
  
“Have you come to ask for it then?” asked Denys.  
  
“I have. Your goodsister and myself have spent much time together here in the Red Keep, these past few weeks,” commented Stannis stiffly.  
  
“As I have observed and heard. Come, this is not the proper setting to speak about these matters. The rest of my prayers must wait it seems.  
  
And so they retired to Denys’ chambers. After offering Stannis refreshment, Denys then amicably continued their conversation as he sat in his chair across from Stannis, “I must admit, that I am confused about one thing.”  
  
Stannis replied with an “Hmm”, though obviously meaning for Denys to continue.  
  
Denys spoke honestly, “From what I know of your character, you are not a man to rush into things… and yet with only a few weeks’ acquaintance you wish to betroth yourself to my goodsister.”  
  
 _Robert complained of your deliberation often enough._  
  
“I… I have a great affection for Lorra—the lady.”  
  
“Your words sound so cold for such a warm-hearted affection. If we are to be goodbrothers, Stannis, I believe t’would be better to be a little less formal with one another,”  
  
“If you so wish… Denys,” tested Stannis, obviously awkward at the informality.  
  
“Why the rush, truly?” asked Denys.  
  
Stannis was almost blunt in saying, “To speak the truth, Lorra desired an earlier over a later marriage, and I am inclined to a similar opinion myself.”  
  
“Did she give you any particular reason?” asked Denys  
  
“Aye, she did,” he replied while lowering his eyes from Denys’ view.  
  
Denys waited to hear her reason, but Stannis seemed quite reluctant to give it.  
  
“May I not hear this reason of hers?” asked Denys  
  
“She wished to be married before you returned to the Vale.”  
  
Denys could guess the reason from that alone, but he politely avoided saying the obvious, instead simply confirming, “Because she does not wish to return to the Vale with myself?”  
  
“Aye,” was Stannis’ troubled response.  
  
That alone said everything. She had told him her suspicions to the true nature of his grief. And had Stannis not witnessed Denys’ devotions he too would now be much more adamant in marrying before leaving the Red Keep, Denys supposed. Denys made note to speak with Lorra about the issue later.  
  
Denys gave a deep sigh, to keep his irritation in check as he replied, “From having worked with you on the small council, I know what kind of man you are well enough to say that I am not against the betrothal, and in fact welcome the strengthening of ties between my family and yours. Should she desire you, I would say it is a match. Having said that though, I hate to give some disappointment, but I fear I must. As Lorra is the current heir to the Vale we have not time to put together such a ceremony as would be required to do _proper_ _honor_ to my goodsister. I would say that the earliest such a time could be arranged would be three moons from hence at the Eyrie. I apologize for the small delay, but if you truly wish to marry my goodsister a few moons should not matter in the least.”  
  
Stannis accepted this qualifier easily enough, nodding his head, and then added, “I have a few matters myself concerning Summerhall that need attending to immediately. Three moons from this day, then?”  
  
“Aye,” confirmed Denys.  
  
  
After Stannis had left, Denys waited, knowing that Lorra once she’d heard word of the small delay in her marriage, would come to him. He was not disappointed nor had to wait too long.  
  
“So I must wait three moons until I am to be wed?” she entered after having forced the door open.  
  
“Given your position as my current heir, it seemed the earliest you could be married. Besides which your betrothed has some matters of his own to attend to first.”  
  
“So I must return with you and that woman to the Eyrie then, is that it?”  
  
“Aye, and if you prefer not to speak Lysa’s name that is your choice, but beyond her name she should be referred to only as Lady Arryn,” warned Denys.  
  
“You dislike me, and I detest you, why do you pause at the chance for us to be rid of each other?”  
  
“I do not dislike you Lorra.”  
  
She almost pleaded with him, “Then let me marry Stannis in three days, not three moons.”  
  
“Have you even stopped to consider what this marriage will be beyond an escape from me?” asked Denys  
  
Her reply was automatic, “Stannis is a good man.”  
  
“Aye, I know he is, which is why I agreed to the match, but tell me truly, have you thought through what becoming his wife would mean fully?”  
  
“Did you consider the same when you disgraced Annalys by marrying that whore?”  
  
 _That is the final straw!_  
  
“Lorra, I refused to speak with you while you insult either of my wives, past or present with your vicious slander!” he shouted.  
  
“ _I_ insult Annalys?” replied Lorra with utter incredulity.  
  
Denys snapped, “By spreading lies _publicly_ that I am a cold-hearted monster? You do. By telling Stannis of your doubts---to whom you weren’t even betrothed yet—you slandered her memory as much as you do me! For my own part I care not, but for Annalys, you make her out to be a blind fool—and that we both know is _far_ from the truth. I will not stand for your public slander, neither against Annalys nor Lysa. We return to the Eyrie in three days, if you are not prepared by then, whatever you don’t have prepared will be left behind. Now get out of my chambers!”  
  
  
And much to his surprise, Lorra did as he requested, the same look of incredulity stuck on her face as she did.  
  
When it came time to return to the Vale, Lorra for her part was ready and along with Elyssa got onto the ship bound for Gulltown.The seas were rougher as spring had had a chance to settle in more and Denys, Lysa, and his two goodsisters were forced to share a cabin in the cramped vessel. As such no cot could be spared, but instead they were each given a hammock to sleep in. This of course only made the nightmares worse as now Lysa was unable to calm him as she had when they shared a bed. After falling out of his top hammock one time too many from the nightmares, Lysa took that hammock and insisted he take the bottom. Elyssa for her part tried to comfort him herself one night.  
  
“Before the pox… Annalys and Jasper visited us at Ironoaks… I was to keep Jasper entertained while Annalys was to rest. Jasper and I went immediately into the woods by the nearby brook and found some sticks and decided to dam it up. It was all Jasper’s idea really, but once he said the idea was to collect enough water so we could make a little pool to take a dip in, I was easily convinced to help. He was a very clever boy… anyway, so we damed up the brook and the water slowly began to collect, but it didn’t collect fast enough so we had to return to Ironoaks before we could try it. The next day, just like Jasper had said there was a little pool and we soaked ourselves in the water.  
  
“In the middle of Winter?!” Denys had exclaimed as silently as he could.  
  
“Spring was just starting to come on then, and it was a very unusual hot few days” replied Elyssa.  
  
At this Denys took Elyssa’s hand in thanks, and found sleep slightly easier to come by, and for a few nights at least the nightmares lessened so he did not awake so violently.  
  
After arriving in Gulltown, a bustling city with tiled roofs and a Sept with a teardrop shaped dome, Denys for the first time desired to spend a night visiting the Gulltown Arryns—distant cousins who had become quite heavily involved in trade with Essos, and thus were responsible for Gulltown’s dramatic increase in prosperity for the Vale over the last few centuries. Jon and the other Arryns of the Eyrie had spoke of the way Mychel Arryn’s cadet branch’s tendency to marry rich merchant daughters and derive the majority of their wealth from the profit off the trade good Vale stone and wool were exchanged for to be near scandalous. Yet Denys when he, Lysa, Elyssa, and a very perturbed Lorra arrived at the manse of Norys Arryn, the current head of the cadet branch, and only male relation amongst its ranks, Denys could not help but see how Norys lived almost nearly as well as he did as Lord of the Vale. Norys most especially lived better than Denys had as the Knight of Ironwings Keep with Annalys.  
  
Incredible… to think that all of this was achieved in the 284 years since Aegon landed his army and dragons to conquer Westeros whereas the Eyrie had taken several thousand years to achieve its state…  
  
Clearly there was something to this merchant’s life if it could elevate a cadet branch to near lordly heights. Denys regretted he had not a mind for figures and sums so he could better understand it all in more detail. That’s where Lysa held her strength in their marriage, or at least had a better grasp than him at any rate.  
  
Norys had been quite shocked but quite welcoming of the visit, bursting with pride as he led a tour of his manse and the surrounding garden. Norys was an older man, having seen at least eight and thirty namedays—which were all he would admit to, though Denys suspected there were a few more besides—and had recently married for the first time to a girl at the very least half his age at nine and ten namedays, by the name of Meledy. Meledy on the tour was quite eager to show off her imported jug collection which stood on a shelf in the dining room for all to gawk at. The collection of fine painted pottery included pieces which claimed to be from as far off as Asshai and Yi Ti, reportedly. And each was meant to hold a certain wine or ale she boasted. It really was quite laughable observing Norys and his wife crowing over such objects. As Lord of the Eyrie, Denys did in fact own a few valuable objects, but they were valuable for the stories attached to them, not the cost they had been purchased with. To have the helmet of the first Andal to set foot upon the shore of Westeros and the statue of the falcon that the first Arryn had carved with his own hands as a present for his own wife were, like the words of his house, as high as honor. But Denys did not begrudge Norys nor his wife their pride, figuring that when one must make one’s own way through the world on trade alone, that coin itself becomes something of more value. Elyssa marveled at the delights of the manse, while Lysa smiled uncomfortably, and Lorra for once held her tongue.  
  
After a light supper, during which Meledy’s mother, who lived with Norys, demanded more ale than Denys thought was proper for a lady to consume, Norys asked if he could speak with Denys in the garden. As they strolled through the warm evening air, the banners of House Arryn of Gulltown—the perched falcon on a rock holding a golden coin in its mouth in front of a crescent moon on a field of blue—fluttered in the cool sea breeze which came in off of the Narrow Sea.  
  
“An Arryn of the Eyrie has never before now visited an Arryn of Gulltown,” began Norys.  
  
“A social call long overdue, I can see now,” replied Denys.  
  
“Is it?” asked Norys  
  
“I have long considered the differences between the two branches of our family to be overblown. We are, after all both Arryns from the same stock as Jonnel Arrryn, the last true King of the Vale and Mountain, no matter how many generations separate us,” answered Denys.  
  
“Well, I am glad to live to hear an Arryn of the Eyrie say as much,” admitted Norys bluntly.  
  
Denys did not miss that norys did not reciprocate the sentiment, and he immediately began to regret the rest of the conversation. However to his surprise, Norys continued on amicably as though nothing were missing from the conversation on his end. As their conversation continued, Denys eventually came to realize that he seemed to be in complete ignorance as to the social niceties required of him.  
  
“When I heard you had been made heir to the Old Falcon, I wondered if a man of your… background would recognize the benefits closer ties between our two branches would bring to the Vale at large.”  
  
“A man of my background?” queried Denys, completely in the dark as to what he was referring to.  
  
“A man from such… humble means,” answered Norys frankly, and it took Denys a moment to realize that Norys was referring to the fact that Denys’ father had spent all his inheritance on wine so that he could not afford to take care of him.  
  
“When you were made Lord Justice of the Small Council, I rejoiced for I thought that Westeros and all the Vale might benefit from the prudence the Old Falcon had taught you. Jon Arryn was known for many things, chief among them being prudence. I am glad to see that I was not wrong in my assessment. We Arryns here in Gulltown could benefit greatly from your position.”  
  
“Benefit, in what way?” asked Denys, though he had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with coin.  
  
“There has been of late an increase in underhanded dealings amongst the merchants here in Gulltown. They take more than their fair share in deals, preying upon weaker and smaller merchants mercilessly in a manner completely lacking any honor.”  
  
“And what would you have me do? I am not the Lord Treasurer.”  
  
Norys continued, “I heard you have appointed Lord Lothar Mallory as the Justice of King’s Landing, so that the capital may not lack in a just hand while you see to the duties of being Lord Paramount of the Vale.”  
  
Not immediately seeing where Norys was going with this thought, Denys admitted, “I have, and Lord Lothar has proven himself to be one of the most honorable and honest persons not born to the name of Arryn I have ever met, after my friend Lord Eddard.”  
  
Norys nodded and then added, “If by chance a similar such young man could be in a similar such position, the smaller merchants of Gulltown would be forever in your debt.”  
  
“I fail to see how so,” replied Denys  
  
“When a wealthier merchant cheats a smaller one, given the nature of their transactions dealing with foreign trade, the only recourse left to the smaller merchant is to take their suit to the Lord Justice, but most smaller merchants cannot afford to travel to King’s Landing after such a deal, and so are left helpless to be preyed upon by the wealthier vultures. But with a Justice of Gulltown here in the city, they could easily seek redress from such a man and have a fair chance at keeping the vultures at bay.”  
  
It was decent proposal, and one that could help matters if the problems truly were as Norys said. He would have to conduct an investigation of his own, but for the moment Denys affirmed that he would look into the matter, which seemed to please Norys quite thoroughly.  
  
It was then that a voice from over the garden wall calling, “Norry!”  
  
“Forgive me for a moment, Lord Denys, but I just remembered that I was supposed to meet with someone this evening, pray let me be excused—I will only be a moment,” and before Denys could say anything in response, Norys had called out “By the gate!” and walked off to the not so far end of the garden where the back gate leading to an alleyway behind the manse was. There Norys unlocked the gate and allowed a man into his garden who looked as though he managed Gulltown’s bath house more than an honest dealer. Denys observed as Norys paid the man and received a small back in exchange, then promptly rushed the man out of his garden and locked the gate behind him.  
  
“And for what was that transaction for?” asked Denys when Norys returned, his distant cousin too preoccupied examining the contents of the bag  
  
“Oh… Lord Denys… I thought you had gone in…” stuttered Norys in shock.  
  
“That man, he looked like the owner of the bath house,” mentioned Denys cautiously.  
  
Norys admitted, “Aye, he is.”  
  
“And what business would you, an Arryn, have with such a bawd?” asked Denys  
  
“It’s all honest business, and a rather… personal matter,” insisted Norys rather worriedly.  
  
“A personal matter?” asked Denys.  
  
“I can trust you my lord, what with your own condition being so similar to my own…” rambled Norys, who then brought them to a small bench behind a hedgerow for them to sit and talk before continuing, “You see, my wife and I have had some trouble... and the bawd promised me that this herb will help my young wife quicken with child.”  
  
At this, Denys’ suspicions as to his cousin’s shady business dealings eased.  
  
“Is that so? This is the first I’ve heard of such an herb,” retorted Denys.  
  
“There’s all kinds of herbs and elixirs that the smallfolk and merchants use since the maesters refuse to see them,” answered Norys.  
  
“And what exactly is this herb?” asked Denys, more so out of curiosity than anything else.  
  
“The smallfolk call it dragon’s tooth,” answered Norys as he pulled out a long pointy root that Denys could see be confused in some odd way for a dragon’s tooth.  
  
“And the bawd just so happened to know this, find you, and tell you all of this?” asked Denys  
  
“No, a young man who left the citadel before completing his chain told me this, and directed me to the bawd so I could purchase it. Anyway, I have to make an elixir using this herb and then give it to Meledy for her to drink… the only problem is that the bawd told me that after drinking the elixir the first man who has sex with Meledy will die in three days time after drinking it, but after that she’ll be ready to conceive with child.”  
  
“So you are willing to risk your own death in order to possibly conceive a child?” asked Denys, not knowing if to admire Norys’ bravery or stupidity.  
  
“I am not.”  
  
“Then how are you…no…” realized Denys.  
  
“The young man said it was the only way I could avoid my own death,” added Norys.  
  
“You would make yourself a cuckold!” exclaimed Denys.  
  
Norys firmly addend, “If it be only for one night, and with the chance to conceive a child thereafter, I would do so.”  
  
“And what of the life of the man you would theoretically take?” asked Denys, doubting the herb could do as such and leave the lady alive.  
  
“I am speaking on the matter with a Septon,” ashured Norys.  
  
“And what has he said?” Denys queried, curious to see whether some sanity had entered the situation from there.  
  
“That some evils must be endured for some good to come,” answered Norys simply.  
  
“A Septon said that?!” exclaimed Denys.  
  
“Aye.”  
  
Denys could no longer hold his tongue of what he could now easily see plainly, “Norys… I know not how, but I believe you are being swindled out of your wife.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“There is no such herb that can do all that you say. A herb that makes a woman fertile but first deadly, killing the man but not the woman it’s utterly ludicrous.”  
  
Norys seemed reluctant to accept this, saying, “Then what should I do? I am not getting any younger, and my house needs an heir.”  
  
“How often do you take to your wife’s bed?”  
  
“Once a moon,” answered Norys.  
  
“There’s your problem. Take to it more frequently and the likelihood of you producing a child together will be all the more likely. Forget herbs and elixirs,” answered Denys.  
  
Norys still looked reluctant to agree, but by that point a servant had come to fetch them as Meledy had decided to play the high harp in honor of their visit. So the subject was dropped and not once again brought up for the rest of Denys’ visit.  
  
Meledy Arryn played the high harp rather clumsily, but with some talent nonetheless.  
  
“She is taking lessons with young Caliman Shett, who was most eager to instruct her. Though she is a bit clumsy about her fingering, he says,” admitted Norys conspiratorially to Denys,  
  
“Caliman Shett… is he not heir to Gull Tower?” asked Elyssa with some interest to Denys.  
  
“No, he’s Ser Damon’s younger brother,” corrected Denys, recalling what he could of the Shett family—vassals as they were to Lord Royce. Young Caliman had been sent off to the citadel if he remembered correctly, though apparently had not stayed there.  
  
They spent a night in the most comfortable beds Denys had slept in since leaving King’s Landing and then set off in the morning for the Eyrie. Traveling as they were across the rugged terrain of the Vale in spring, they had to deal with rain storms frequently, causing their horses and camps often to be in the thickest of mud that only served to delay their journey.  
  
And then one night as they were coming close to passing Ironwings, Denys awoke not from his nightmare, but to a scream. Grabbing his sword and nearly jumping into his boots, he ran outside to find the camp under attack by what appeared in the hazy light the half-covered moon gave off to be clansmen of the Mountains. They were making off with something as Denys came out and he only had the opportunity to do battle with one of them before he began to notice the rest of the clansmen were running off through the misting rain.  
  
“Denys!” cried out a voice which he immediately recognized as Elyssa’s, but he was too busy with ducking from a clansman’s bronze ax at that moment to chase after her immediately, and when at long last the man had fallen, the camp had been emptied of his clan, and Elyssa missing.  
  
Immediately Denys knew what he had to do, he would have to go after and get Elyssa back. There was no other way around it, and so he saddled his horse, gave orders to the two guards left alive to take Lysa and Lorra to Ironwings and hole up there while Denys gave chase—as fast as he could in this mud after the clansmen.


	27. Benjen

  
**BENJEN**  
  
Nearly three years had passed since Eddard had returned to Winterfell from the Rebellion and offered him land and a title of his own. He could hardly believe all that had occurred in that time. He had become acquainted with Ser Davos, who had taken the name of Seaworth upon his knighthood and spent several months in discussing with Ned, Ser Davos, and the addition of Ser Wendel Manderly on the plans of his future hold. Ser Wendel had been sent upon further discussion with Lord Wyman, to be another sworn knight to Benjen and aide where he could in seeing that the harbor was built and organized properly, while Ser Davos would in addition to being a bannerman of Benjen would oversee the eventual consolidation and eventual construction of a small western fleet. Their goal was for an easily defensible keep, with a small town surrounding it to support such a harbor. Ser Davos and Ser Wendel had recently returned from a year spent overseeing the construction while Benjen had finished out his education and sword training. The plan had been for his new to have been finished by this point when he’d become a man grown, but it seemed that their hopes had been a bit too optimistic, to hear the two knights speak as they sat in Ned’s solar.  
  
“The keep’s construction is slower going than anticipated. There’s far fewer skilled carpenters, smithies, and stone masons than is required for the project. What few there are in the fishing villages of the Stony Shore have had to spend most of their time training and taking on additional apprentices to meet such an increased workload in addition to their usual communties’ needs. It’s safe to presume that a stone keep at the mouth of the Blazewater river will take many more years to complete than we thought,” stated Ser Wendel.  
  
“What about a wooden motte and bailey?” asked Benjen, having spent many a night in Winterfell’s library pouring over the earliest construction records of House Stark that were available. The Wolf’s Den to begin with had been a simple wooden motte and bailey that’ subsequent Starks, then Greystarks, then other subsequent families down to the Manderlys had built upon and altered slowly transforming it into the stone castle turned prison that existed today in White Harbor.  
  
“That would certainly be built much more quickly,” conceded Ser Davos.  
  
“And require less skilled labor,” added Benjen  
  
“But more unskilled labor than is currently at the mouth of the river,” reminded Ned. Benjen had chosen the Stony Shore specifically because there were people already carving out a life there of their own choice, which would be faster to build up than campaigning for completely new settlements at Sea Dragon Point, but now it seemed that the number that did live there weren’t enough.  
  
“And what do we tell the craftsmen whom we’ve hired for the nonce?” asked Ser Wendell pointedly.  
  
“The project will still continue, but for the immediate moment some kind of structure is needed while they train their apprentices. If I am to rule the Stony Shore in my brother’s name then I must have a seat of power from which I must do so,” at this Benjen took a deep breath. He still found speaking to men older than him with authority to be difficult, despite recently turning six and ten himself. Benjen then said, “I don’t care if I have to dig my own cat hole, I can always add to the keep each Summer so that when my sons are grown they have the stone keep.”  
  
Ned looked on him proudly in that moment, and Benjen felt quite pleased with himself for both Ser Davos and Ser Wendel agreed that at this point that was the wisest course of action to take. For the large part Benjen had noticed that Ned had only ever added his thoughts on a spare occasion thus far in the meeting, while leaving the majority of the leading of the meeting to him. Benjen appreciated Ned’s quiet support in this moment, even if he did doubt himself in a few occasions.  
  
“Then I will write letter to Arry and inform him of the change in plans,” declared Benjen as firmly as he had spoken as the Stark in Winterfell during the Rebellion.  
  
Ser Wendel spoke up at that moment, “I would make one suggestion. My father has lately found the Wolf’s Den to be a bit, cramped for the number of prisoners there. He asks if you might have need of a few more hands of unskilled labor. Only the ones guilty of minor charges—pickpocketing and smuggling, and such—who in exchange for their labor in building your keep and harbor would end their sentences upon its completion with the opportunity of having a second chance to remake themselves in live, should they choose to do so.”  
  
“And what do you think of your father’s suggestion, Ser Wendel?” asked Benjen, knowing the man’s honor to be one of his most cherished values.  
  
“I think should the men offered the suggestion be wisely selected, it would greatly improve the speed of the work—especially since you’ve decided to build the motte and bailey. There is of course the matter to think of concerning how one defines the end of their sentences—which would be the difficult question,” answered Ser Wendel honestly.  
  
Benjen then turned to the short-fingered knight—as Ser Davos was now being called—and asked, “Ser Davos, what is your opinion?”  
  
“You wish to know my opinion given that I was once in a similar situation?” asked Ser Davos pointedly.  
  
“Aye,” answered Benjen.  
  
“I think any man, provided the chance, would take the opportunity to remake himself. The only thing I would take caution with would be a man finding something worth changing for. For me it was my Marya and our three boys. They needed a life that I couldn’t provide for ‘em by smuggling—a better chance than I ever had growing up in Flea Bottom. So while I say many a man would want a second chance, I’d say that they need t’find something worth making that second chance about, or else old habits are like to crop up again sooner or later.”  
  
“So you would have us marry the rascals?” questioned Ser Wendel.  
  
“Not at all. Surely some of those men must already have family. Offer to ship their family to them and provide a house with as much land as they can farm if they desire such a life. And for those who don’t have a family to work for, mayhaps it could be suggested that they could take the skills they learn from their labor and use them for their own benefit? The Seven know we both will need keeps of our own built soon enough, and to clear land, and build houses for farmers and such,” countered Ser Davos.  
  
“Very wise suggestions Ser Davos,” commented Benjen  
  
“Indeed, I for one would agree with Ser Wendel that the matter here would be to set clear terms of the end of the labor, as well as consideration for their treatment Ben—these men should not be slaves in everything but name and collar,” reminded Ned, and Benjen added his own grimace while he recalled the visit of Lady Maege to Winterfell along with her infant daughter, and the story of her time in Essos. No, these men would not be slaves—of that Benjen was determined.  
  
“I would think three years would be more than enough time for the first group to come and build the motte and bailey, not to mention the inner harbor,” established Benjen, to which both knights and even Ned agreed was more than fair.  
  
“Have you considered a wife yourself, my lord?” asked Ser Wendel purposefully.  
  
At this Benjen felt a heat rise to his cheeks and the tips his ears—no he had not given that much thought, and Ned had not brought him any choices to consider. The openness with which Ser Wendel asked the question caught Benjen off guard, but he supposed if he was to have these sons and see them men grown so he could join the Night’s Watch, the sooner he married, the quicker  
  
“I’ve looked into a few on your behalf, but I’m afraid there’s only a handful of Northern girls your age, Ben. There's not a lot to choose from,” admitted Ned.  
  
Ser Wendel continued, “Aye, the closest in age to ya is probably Dacey Mormont, and after her Sybelle Locke--although I hear her father is eying Ser Robett Glover for a goodson. But of course if a wife is something you’re not immediately interested in, there’s always my niece. She’s but a young child now, but one day she’ll surely grow into as fine a beauty as her mother is.”  
  
“How young?” asked Benjen.  
  
“Oh she’s five namedays now, but in a moon or so will be six,” answered Ser Wendel.  
  
 _Too young! She’d be better off marrying Theon or Raynald than me…_  
  
“I thank you for your consideration, but I fear I must have at least a roof of my own over my head before I can consider marriage,” replied Benjen after clearing his throat.  
  
 _That answer ought to satisfy them for now…_  
  
It was at that moment a knock was heard at the door.  
  
“What is it?” called Ned.  
  
A voice answered from the other side of the door, saying, “It’s Erick, my lord, I fear I must disturb you.”  
  
Ned growled slightly and then with a sigh—and a look of apology to Benjen—replied, “Come in.”  
  
In came a guard escorting Ned’s ward Den. The boy was now four namedays old and his white-gold hair was much thicker and shoulder length than when the he’d arrived at Winterfell as a babe. He was dressed in the gray and white colors of House Stark—sans direwolves—though the only name the boy would ever likely have would be Snow. What drew everyone’s attention though was the dark bruise around his right eye, slightly bloody nose, and swollen lip. The child looked as though he had been in a fight. Ned, as protective of his wards as he was of his own three boys immediately stood and walked over and picked up Den, the boy immediately clinging fervently to him upon doing so.  
  
Erick continued, “He was wandering the halls, my lord. I would’ve taken him to Luwin or even back to the nursery if he hadn’t been so insistent on coming in here.”  
  
Ned nodded his head and dismissed Erick.  
  
“I think we’ve discussed enough for one afternoon, don’t you agree, Ser Wendel?” asked Ser Davos, purposefully rising at that moment, and both men excused themselves in an instant, with Benjen agreeing that they could meet here again on the morrow to discuss other issues that had popped up in the site of Benjen’s new hold to be. But as Benjen moved to leave, Den began to wine and moan wordlessly. It was the oddest thing about the child. Up until a year ago, he’d been speaking to his heart’s content, and then suddenly he simply stopped, refusing to say a word to anyone, instead relying on groans and silent gestures to make his point. No matter of coaxing could tempt him to speak. And the oddest bit of all was that Jon and Robb—his two closest companions acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary with Den at all—but then the three of them had it seemed a language all their own at times.  
  
“Ben could you stay?” requested Ned as he took to his seat once again behind his desk.  
  
“If Den wishes it, I guess it must be so,” commented Benjen as he shut the door and took to his seat on the other side of Ned’s desk once again.  
  
“What happened, Den?” questioned Ned.  
  
The boy continued his vow of silence and lowered his eyes before looking over to Ben, and then squirming out of Ned’s grasp and jumping to the floor, running to pull at Ben’s sleeve, his one dark blue eye that was not swollen shut looking pleading at him and then at Ned.  
  
“I think he wants us to follow him,” offered Benjen, and he was answered by a determined nod of the head from Den.  
  
“First I’d hear how he got hurt,” insisted Ned.  
  
Den however tugged once again at Ben and then Ned, as if to ask them to stand up.  
  
“Mayhaps that’s what he wants to show us,” offered Benjen  
  
Ned considered this for a moment before Den nodded once again, and Benjen saw his brother sigh and stand, with Benjen following likewise. The quiet four namedays old Den nearly ran through the halls, implying some sense of urgency which disquieted Benjen and Ned both. They took longer strides as the boy led them down stairs and out of the Great Keep across the courtyard and into the Godswood. The godswood was as silent as Den and the boy seemed to run through its shaded branches with increasing speed. And then suddenly Den stopped and Benjen saw immediately what Den had meant. Crying softly at the foot of a tree and holding his right arm tenderly with his left was Jon with a worried and notably bruised Robb trying to cheer him up.  
  
“Father!” called out Robb, the recently three nameday old boy called out and ran to Ned, Den choosing that moment to hover close to pull Ben to Jon. And as Robb spoke in a rushed voice answering all the questions that Ned had been wondering since Den had appeared in his solar. Benjen heard Theon’s name be brought up amongst his nephew’s hurried speech.  
  
“I don’t care what Theon said, Robb. Fighting while you’re climbing in a tree is not safe! You five could have been killed!” Benjen heard Ned scold.  
  
Benjen meanwhile approached Jon at Den’s urging. Kneeling next to Den, beside Ned’s miniature in countenance and solemnity, Benjen placed his hand on his nephew’s left shoulder.  
  
“Jon… what’s wrong?” asked Benjen.  
  
“My… my arm… hurts…” sobbed his three nameday old nephew.  
  
“Likely it’s just broken, Maester Luwin knows how to fix it,” assured Benjen, giving his nephew a reassuring smile like Brandon had to him whenever he’d hurt himself. This trick seemed to work for Jon smiled back and seemed to gain some control over his tears.   
  
It was then Ben felt Ned’s approach behind him. This was confirmed when Robb rushed to the other side of Den and said, “Father’s here… he’ll fix things!”   
  
Benjen saw Ned and Jon lock eyes and for a moment it seemed that father and son seemed to speak through silence as much as Den did. Ned then gently picked up Jon and shushed him as he began to whimper. This of course left Benjen to keep corral both Robb and Den and lead them to follow after. All three would need to see the Maester.


	28. Denys IV

**DENYS**  
  
As Denys urged his mount through the muck and the rain he tried to listen for the sounds of the retreating clansmen. They had been quite loud not too long ago, and Elyssa herself had been calling out. But now…  
  
 _It’s like they vanished into thin air…_  
  
 _I should have taken more guards, like Jon used to…_  
  
As Denys attempted to use what little moonlight peaked through a hole in the clouds to discern tracks in the mud, eventually coming upon the sight of what looked like a trail, and slowly he urged his mount forward—careful not to destroy the prints less they lead to a dead end. He hadn’t gotten far from where he’d stopped when he heard coming from behind him the sound of more horses following. Thinking for a moment that the clansmen had scattered and some had gone to fetch horses, Denys drew his sword and turned to face the approaching steeds—only to find himself surprised at seeing his two guardsmen left alive and Lorra and Lysa—each dressed in a riding cloak to keep the rain off—arrive and come to a stop. He lowered his sword, but did not immediately put it away.  
  
 _The way to Ironwings is not up into the mountains…_  
  
Denys was quite confused as to their appearance when suddenly he saw that both Lysa and Lorra had donned a bow and as many arrows as they could each stuff into a quiver. Immediately he comprehended what was happening.  
  
“No,” he said before either could object.  
  
“She’s my sister!” snapped Lorra.  
  
“Denys, did you even consider that you were riding off alone? How can you face a whole clan of mountain men alone? You need as many guards as you have with you more so than us,” urged a seemingly calm Lysa.  
  
“And you two need to get to Ironwings safely,” rebuked Denys.  
  
“We’re coming whether you like it or not!” declared Lorra.  
  
“What she means to say is, we can be of some help. We’ll stay back and shoot from the trees while you and your men rescue Elyssa,” Lysa once again asserted logically.  
  
“Lysa, it isn’t—” began Denys.  
  
“Quit arguing, we’re not going to budge on this,” snapped Lorra.  
  
“And you two, what do you have to say?” Denys asked of his guards.  
  
“You need as much help as you can get, m’lord,” answered the guard on the left—Jeth was his nam, Denys recalled. While the other, Mark nodded in agreement with his comrade.  
  
Denys knew that it was folly, but with every second spent arguing about   
  
“Do either of you even know how to use a bow and arrow?” asked Denys exasperatedly.  
  
“Put an arrow on the string, pull it back and shoot—what’s so hard about that?” retorted Lorra with a scoff.  
  
“I was helping my brother work on his aim before the war…” offered Lysa tentatively.  
  
“Fine, but you stay far enough away when Jeth and Mark and I ambush their camp so you can get away if you have to,” conceded Denys, thinking of some plan in the interim to try and keep them back. Mayhaps he could convince them soon to finish taking their rest if they happened upon a cave, and leaving them after they had fallen asleep? No… there was no honor in sneaking away in the early hours of dawn like that. Though the cave idea was not a particularly bad one as he could not see a damn thing in this weather and the search for signs to follow would have to begin again in the morning—hopefully with the rain having stopped by then.  
  
They continued on until they did in fact happen upon a cave, where Denys suggested they rest and wait out until first light than continue with the aid of the morning light. They secured their horses within sight of the cave, but hidden well enough that they could not be immediately seen.  
  
He had no intention of falling asleep, intending to let everyone else have shut eye and promising to wake Jeth in a two hours’ time and yet as he sat down at the edge of the cave and leaned against the wall, he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming tiredness fall upon him. Mayhaps it was because he had had so little sleep before being disturbed earlier, or mayhaps it was from the sudden burst of energy he had had having been spent. He resisted once or twice falling asleep before at long last succumbing once again to the world of his nightmares.  
  
 _Tonight the nightmare was especially potent, seeming to be in greater details than he had ever thought before. The red marks on Annalys and Jasper were inflamed and flaking off bits of skin. The blood dripped and pooled from Jon’s wound. And now added to the horrors was the sight of Elyssa entering the room only to be pulled back by some unseen force. Her trying desperately to cling to the threshold for as long as she could before losing her grip and disappearing into a dark void beyond the door._  
  
 _“Let her go…” urged Annalys’ voice, and suddenly the door began to shut on its own._  
  
 _But something felt wrong about this… he couldn’t just let Elyssa disappear like that—no, it was wrong. Something about this had to change. He then started to move closer towards the door—but as he did so the room seemed to stretch out before him—lengthening beyond proportion. All the while Annalys, Jasper, and even Jon called out for him to give up. The door was still swinging, it was almost closed. He was almost there… just a few feet more…_  
  
 _Then suddenly Lorra—who had oddly been absent from his nightmare until now appeared before him. She stared at him before grabbing his wrist and insisting, “Find her.” And suddenly he was at the door—it was nearly closed, but he pulled it open and found himself blinded by light and then a shadow._  
  
When his eyes focused more he could make out that it was Lorra and the bright light came from the moon and a clear night sky.  
  
“You fell asleep,” observed Lorra  
  
There was no point in denying it, having been caught doing so. Internally Denys berated himself for not keeping himself more alert. He immediately checked to see if the horses were still within sight—and he noticed the swish of a tail which calmed his internal sense of panic somewhat.  
  
A moment of silence passed between Lorra and Denys, and then just as Denys was about to speak, Lorra asked, “Do you dream about her every night?”  
  
“How do you know what I dream?” he asked, with a bit too much of a challenging tone than he had meant to have.  
  
“You call out her name in your sleep… on the boat, just now… you always do. So do you dream of her?” asked Lorra simply.  
  
“Most nights…” Denys admitted for it was beginning to become hard to remember a time when he hadn’t had these nightmares. Had there been a break from them? Or had he simply imagined that there had been one.  
  
Lorra’s only answer was a simple nod as she took a seat next to him, joining him on his watch.  
  
“I loved Annalys greatly…” added Denys after another silent pause.  
  
“I knew that… which was why I was so shocked… and angry to hear you had married her so soon thereafter,” commented Lorra.  
  
Denys looked to the sleeping form of Lysa, who obviously was completely tuckered out and slept on her pile of leaves as if it were the softest of downy feather beds.  
  
“We’ll find her. I’ll bring her back,” he assured her. Lorra only acknowledged his words with a silent nod before rising again.  
  
“You should get some sleep—let Jeth take the next watch,” and without a word further Lorra returned to her own spot on the far side of Lysa. Denys tried staying up a bit after Lorra had returned to her own sleep, but when he began to feel himself grow groggy once more, Denys rose and awoke Jeth and took to his own for once dreamless sleep.  
  
He had no sooner closed his eyes before he felt himself being nudged awake by Lysa. The early pinkish glow of dawn pouring light into their cave. Denys willed himself awake and they saddled their horses and were back on the trail in no time at all. They continued following the tracks that had been obviously left behind the clansmen in the soft mud along the increasingly narrow path that switched back up the mountain. There were a few moments where they lost the trail in what appeared to have been a run off crossing the intended path of the clansmen, but with some luck they’d found the path again easily, until they came to a climbable rock face where they simply stopped.  
  
“There’s only one way they could have gone from here,” stated Denys.  
  
“Two,” corrected Lorra and she looked out over the ledge to see down into the gorge below. There appeared to be three clansmen who had slipped during the climb who now lay at the bottom of the gorge in a bloody pile of bones and flesh. Thankfully from what Denys could see—none of the corpses being picked at by a few vultures were wearing Elyssa’s dress.  
  
“Seven have mercy,” uttered Lysa upon leaning over herself.  
  
“They keep not the Seven, Lysa,” corrected Denys  
  
Denys tried to argue against Lysa and Lorra joining the climb, but before he could, Lorra had already begun to climb. Jeth and Mark saw that their horses were made as secure as they could for the duration. If Denys were honest with himself, the harrowing climb up the rockface was at once as thrilling as it was frightening. One wrong move could send any of them falling below—but they were cautious and careful with their footing and by some merciful stroke they all made it to the top safely. Once there they found the trail continued along the longside of a mountain that took them around the gorge. As he looked to the East he couldn’t help but think that the sight of the gorge against the rising sun and the little runoff at the foot of the mountain that had swelled with the rain appeared to be the most beautiful natural sight Denys had seen in his life. That was until he saw another dead body caught on a log in the swelled run off. They then had to cross a slight dip between mountains and here the path leveled out and became easier to trek without thinking any wrong step might send you tumbling down the side of the mountain. It was also here that they would have to cross the swiftly moving run off, which had widened almost to the width of an actual brook with all the rain. Where they would have to cross was visible and audible long before they reached it. It was a little glen which was carved out by the presence of a waterfall that now raged with a torrent of water. Had circumstances been different, Denys might once again have admired its beauty. Here too he found yet another dead clansman, this one seeming having been bludgeoned to death on the back of his head by a rock rather than having conveniently fallen to his death.  
  
“That makes five dead clansmen in total… I’m starting to think something’s amiss here… clansmen who know these mountains don’t just end up dead like this,” stated Denys to his companions.  
  
Then suddenly they heard a scream from the waterfall.  
  
 _Elyssa!_  
  
Drawing his sword, Denys prepared to meet whatever clansmen were coming, but instead it was Elyssa herself who ran out from behind what must have been a hidden nook or cave behind the waterfall and dashed towards them but stopped upon seeing their swords drawn.  
  
“Elyssa!” called out Lorra, hurrying to her sister, but the girl of four and ten looked wild-eyed and frenzied in that moment and backed away as Lorra approached. Lorra stopped when Elyssa bent down to pick up a rock.  
  
“Sheath your swords!” barked Lysa, who after doing so approached Elyssa cautiously as though she were approaching a frightened fawn. Elyssa turned to keep watch on Lysa’s approach, and Lysa took off her quiver and laid it down at her feet and held up her hands as she approached Elyssa.  
  
“You’re safe Elyssa…” urged Lysa as she took another step forward. This time Elyssa did not retreat, but she still kept hold of the rock. By now Denys was able to get a better look at his goodsister to see that it appeared as though she at some point in the night had gotten her hands bloody for streaks of hand prints were wiped over her clothes in a frantic manner. Lysa slowly approached Elyssa, eventually bringing her gently into a hug, taking the rock from her as she did so and his youngest goodsister broke down crying into Lysa’s shoulder.  
  
“There now… you’re safe… you’re safe,” comforted Lysa.  
  
“I… I killed them…” stuttered Elyssa wildly and at this Denys saw both Lysa and Lorra’s eyes go wide. He himself was somewhat in awe.  
  
“Of course you did…” recovered Lysa.  
  
“F—five of them out here, and two in there when they tried to…” she broke down into further sobs as Lysa slowly led her back to their group.  
  
“You were very lucky,” stated Lysa in near amazement.  
  
“I just kept hitting them… again and again with the rock…” mumbled Elyssa.  
  
“Did any of them get away?” asked Denys  
  
Elyssa only nodded in response to his question.  
  
“Then we must hurry before they come back with more clansmen,” urged Denys, and just in that moment an arrow narrowly missed his head from atop the waterfall. Denys urged the women away while he, Jeth, and Mark all peered up to see three clansmen approaching one was at the top of the waterfall taking aim for them, while two others had since jumped down from trees next to the cliff the waterfall was on—obviously having climbed down to do battle. One of the two was just a boy barely older than Elyssa. Steel soon met bronze while arrows from the one up on the ridge continued to be let loose. Jeth and Mark took care of the older and quite hairy man, while the boy charged straight for Denys. He was quite skilled with that bronze sword of his for being as young as he was, Denys had to admit. At some point an arrow hit the boy’s shoulder, and soon after the arrows ceased to be shot—either from having run out or some other reason Denys had no time to contemplate. Either way the fight ended with the man killed and Denys’ blade at the throat of the boy. Denys panting from the battle stared straight into the boy’s First Men gray eyes. For a brief instant—despite the stark blond hair, Denys thought he was staring into the eyes of a young Ned and he found that he couldn’t kill him. After all, where was the honor in killing a boy of five and ten? He ordered the boy to be tied up. They would take him prisoner, if only to keep the boy from returning back to his clan to once again gather even more reinforcements. Denys looked up to see the archer had fallen during the battle, having taken an arrow himself to the chest. It was then Denys looked to both Lorra and Lysa, only to see Lorra nod to him.  
  
They then set out to return to their horses and by some luck of the Seven they made it to Ironwings before nightfall, just as it began to rain again. The keep was closed down, having been left empty after Annalys’ and Jasper’s deaths, and so without any servants they would have to fend for themselves. Jeth and Mark kept a careful watch on their prisoner, as did Elyssa—who did not take her murderous glare off of the elder boy’s as he was tied to a chair to pass the evening in. They asked for his name, but the boy refused to speak—spitting or biting anyone who dared come too close to him.  
  
  
“His name is Cedrik” answered Elyssa after a long pause, at which the boy stared at Elyssa in response. Apparently he must have been the one to have gotten away before. Lysa and Lorra took to scrounging up some kind of meal. Denys meanwhile for the first time that day felt himself nearly collapse. He was home again—in the simple keep that he and Annalys had shared together. They had lost much in the raid but the Seven willing they could replenish their supplies here and set out in a day or so for the Eyrie and leave behind this utter mess.  
  
The keep was filled with sights and sounds for Denys. He could hardly enter a room without hearing Jasper’s laugh, or the echo of Annalys singing a lullaby to him. Worst of all was the door he knew led to the room of his nightmares. He felt he had to enter it, if only to dispel the feeling that behind it waited his nightly terrors. The room was darkened by the twilight light and the calming but quiet sound of rain falling outside echoing through the chamber. The room without a fire and Annalys seemed colder. The neatly made bed almost appeared to be carved from stone. He sat upon his side of it, listening to the rain and the quiet of the keep for a moment.  
  
 _“You’re home,” he heard her say, though he knew he heard her not._  
  
 _Denys turned to look at the door and there standing in the threshold was Annalys, as he had known her in life. He rose and immediately crossed to her and oddly enough she felt real in his arms._  
  
 _“I must be dreaming…” he said as he buried his face in her long hair to smell it once again._  
  
 _“Aye, but not a nightmare for once…” answered Annalys with a smile._  
  
 _“Thank the Seven,” he replied nearly laughing for joy._  
  
 _They spoke not another word, simply holding one another for as long as the dream could last. Nothing more needing to be said. Jasper soon appeared thereafter and insisted on being acknowledged by his father, and Denys bent down to pick his wiry blond son up. Gods he missed them both._  
  
 _“We’re waiting, Denys…” was the only thing Annalys said._  
  
“Denys,” she said once again and suddenly in a flash Annalys transformed into Lysa and Denys was back upon his bed, clutching not Jasper but Annalys’ pillow—which still smelled of her hair.  
  
“Dinner is ready,” said Lysa.  
  
“Aye,” acknowledged Denys and he rose from the bed and joined Lysa—who took his hand and gave it a firm squeeze, and thankfully he returned it closing the door as they departed the room.


	29. Lyanna III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now all those divisions and tensions in Westeros begin to percolate.

**LYANNA**

 

To everyone’s relief, but most especially to Robert’s, the Queen Dowager gave birth to twin girls, named Naerys and Aelinor Hasty. The two infants were night and day of each other. Naerys had her mother’s silver blond hair but her father’s pale brown eyes. Likewise, Aelinor was born with her father’s honey brown hair, but her mother’s violet eyes. The sight of the Hasty twins when they were presented formally at court though had brought back harsh memories for Lyanna of her own silver blond haired and violet eyed girl—though scared as she had been. She had held neither Naerys nor Aelinor long before handing them either to Robert or back to the Queen Dowager, her thoughts troubled of her dead baby girl once again.

 

All apprehension that Robert had held towards the Hastys instantly melted at being introduced to Lord Warden Hasty’s pair of daughters. Naerys was named for the Queen Dowager’s ancestress, while Aelinor had been officially named for Lord Warden Bonifer’s mother, though the name was also in the Targaryen family tree as well, which Robert had grumbled when he’d first heard of their names in private. But the sight of the two adorable baby girls had won him over in the end, like his bastard daughter Mya Stone had him now wrapped around her stubborn little fist as well. Women were his weakness indeed, Lyanna thought. Robert truly was a man who loved to dote on little girls. And if they were too young to fuck, he’d spoil them like some overindulgent father. How would he react when their child was born? Lyanna wondered as she rested her hand on her swelling middle. It hadn’t occurred on her wedding night, but within a moon’s turn from it she had quickened with child, Robert’s heir, if not his eldest born. She would look at the boy after his birth and hope to see Eddrick there, and name him if she had the energy to do so at that point.

 

Today Robert held his second court session for this moon—holding more than two sessions worth of courts within a moon did not suit her husband as he liked sitting upon that ugly monstrosity that was the Iron Throne very little as the burs of the swords had a tendency to cut those who sat upon it. This of course meant that these court sessions were unbearably long—which made Robert want to hold them even less frequently. Lyanna luckily though had convinced him to try next month increasing the sessions to weekly instead of once a fortnight, and see if the loads would be lighter then. Seeing as the courtly sessions were so rare at the moment, they were widely attended by Crownlands and Narrow Sea lords and ladies—with a few Stormlords and Riverlords mixed in as well. Today Lyanna saw Lord Gyles Rosby with his surprisingly quiet young ward of two namedays, Lyam Margate. There was also Lady Stokeworth with her two young daughters, wife of Lord Manly who was the captain of the Goldcloaks.

 

The first matter brought before the court was from the Westerlands. A simple smallfolk woman carrying a small bundle tenderly in her arms was brought before Robert and Lyanna. She walked mournfully and Lyanna could recognize even before she opened her mouth that the bundle in her arms was her dead child.

 

_One grieving mother can recognize another…_

 

“Your grace, I… I come before you to ask for… for…” stuttered the woman.

 

“For what, dear woman?” asked Robert with an odd mix of tenderness and impatience.

 

“For justice, your grace. M’lord Emmon Frey of Feastfires ordered that m’babe was to die... and he had 'im... killed” choked the woman as she looked at the decaying body in her arms. Lyanna took note that the babe in her arms was distinctly black of hair, despite his mother’s golden tresses.

 

At this whispers traveled about the gathered courtiers. It was then that Ser Aenys Frey, the eldest and only member of House Frey in attendance came forward. He was a tall man, round shouldered, with a balding head and a thin rat’s tail beard which had more than a few grey hairs in it.

 

“That is a lie, your grace, my brother would never—!” began Ser Aenys.

 

“Back down, Ser Frey!” boomed Robert.

 

Ser Aenys, suddenly appearing quite self-conscious that nearly the entirety of the court’s eyes were upon him demurred and returned to the edge of the crowd of courtiers that hovered about the room.

 

Robert then sighed and adopted an easier look to the Westerlands woman, “Mayhaps, you were mistaken?”

 

“Nay, your grace. Lord Emmon has slaughtered many a babe in his time as newly appointed lord.”

 

Before Ser Aenys could speak out of turn again, Robert  questioned, “And why would your newly appointed lord commit such a heinous act?”

 

“I was unmarried your grace when…” began the woman hesitantly.

 

“She’s a slut, your grace!” called out an indistinguishable voice from amongst the courtiers.

 

“W—when the squids took me…” finished the woman. And suddenly Lyanna saw Robert’s eyes widen as he looked at the babe in her arms.

 

Robert spoke darkly with a distinct rumble to his voice, “Your child was Ironseed, woman. Be glad at its foul death.”

 

“But he was my own!” insisted the woman fiercely

 

“And a product of rape,” reminded Robert.

 

Lyanna could no longer sit in silence.

 

“Your grace, if I may ask the woman but a few questions?” she asked as Robert looked ready to dismiss her.

 

“Of course,” sighed Robert as he gave way to Lyanna.

 

Lyanna stepped down from the dais so that she was on equal level with the woman when she asked, “Were you too far along with child when the King had liberated Fair Isle?“

 

“N—no your grace… I was offered to take moontea, but I--I rejected doing so,” answered the woman as she kept her eyes fixed upon the ground in front of her, not daring to look Lyanna in the eye.

 

“And why was that?” prodded Lyanna as she drew closer.

 

“I—I’d given up finding a husband cause of me looks years ago… so I saw a child… my boy… my dear little Tycot… as a gift from the Seven,” teared up the woman with a most genuine grief.

 

“May I hold him?” asked Lyanna tenderly.

 

“I… I would be honored your grace,” stuttered the woman who nervously handed Lyanna her son’s decaying corpse. Lyanna held the bundle carefully, feeling the bloated babe’s stiff and cold body in her hands. He smelled something awful, but Lyanna did her best to hide her initial disgust to admire the little infant, looking past its bluish-blackish lips and trying to imagine him healthy and whole once more. Lyanna however could not help but notice the blackened knife slit at the infant’s throat. One eye was lazily opened and Lyanna could see the infant’s shriveled eye had been blue, like his mother’s.

 

“Your grace, if you are through—” began Lord Hoster, Ned’s goodfather, who looked anxious to call in the next petitioner and see the day's business attended to.

 

“I am not my Lord Hand,” replied Lyanna as she then ascended back up the dais and stood before Robert on the Iron Throne holding the carcass gently as she then knelt at his feet.

 

“The Ironseed, your grace,” presented Lyanna as she knelt before Robert, holding up the babe for him to see, knowing exactly what affect it would have on him seeing a dead babe black of hair and blue of eye, though not his exact shades.

 

“We will speak with Lords Stafford and Emmon and investigate the matter further,” conceded Robert with a ghostly pale expression on his face.

 

“T—thank you, your grace!” blubbered the Westerlands woman as she bowed quite low and Lyanna returned her dead son to her.

 

“Yes, yes, on with you. Ser Willam, see to it that this woman is taken care of. Lord Hoster, call in the next petitioner,” dismissed Robert.

 

Lyanna then ascended back to her own smaller throne next to the Iron Throne as Ser Willam Darry escorted the Westerlands woman out personally.

 

“The next one concerns the Stoney Sept…” reminded Lord Hoster in hushed tones to Robert, though loud enough for Lyanna to overhear them.

 

“Ahh, yes, bring in this Septon Whytclyff,” commanded Robert.

 

The Goldcloaks at the doors to the throne room immediately sent one of their number to fetch the wayward Septon, whom Lyanna had heard from Princess Elia was causing the High Septon trouble speaking about a new interpretation of the Seven Pointed Star. The matter interested Lyanna only slightly, since she did not keep the the Faith of the Seven. The comfort a godswood—even if its heart tree was a Great Oak and not a Weirwood—soothed her soul far more than the perfumed cloister of a Sept. It was with this announcement that Lyanna saw arrive in attendance the Queen Dowager, her husband, and the Princess Elia—each of whom held a certain interest in this man that was to be called before Robert.

 

Septon Whytclyff was brought before the King by an escort as though he were a dangerous man. In truth he was a small white haired and bearded man with sharp orange-brown eyes. He was dressed in the long flowing robes of a Septon, though he kept his hood down compared to the other Septons Lyanna had met during her time in the South so far. Oddly though these robes were black of color and seemed to have lost any embroidery of the tell tale seven pointed star that typically adorned the chest of each Septon.

 

“Ahh, Septon Whytclyff, tales of your… ministries have reached our ears. I am so glad to have this opportunity to meet with you,” declared Robert with all his good-natured charm could muster.

 

“I thank your grace for allowing me to speak with you,” began the Septon with a polite bow.

 

“Why have you come here, Septon?” asked Robert as he motioned for the Septon to stand.

 

But before Septon Whytclyff could speak, another voice broke out across the throne room.

 

“Your grace, I would not listen to another word this… _heretic_ utters!” blustered the High Septon in a high wheezy voice. The High Septon’s appearance at the doorway was not blocked by the Goldcloaks. The High Septon was a skinny mousy looking man, quite old and quite frail looking with loose hanging skin hanging from his body. He was often called by the pejorative nickname the “High Nonna”, for like any old woman, he insisted he was quite delicate for his condition, and only on formal occasions and ceremonies was seen outside of the Great Sept of Balor. Thus to see him now, outside of the center of the Faith’s power was quite a sight indeed, and one which shocked all the Southrons present. Lyanna was mildly intrigued, recalling having only seen the High Septon for her wedding and her crowning. He was dressed in quite elaborately embroidered white robes which was adorned with several strings of crystal beads which cast many tiny rainbows on the stone floor—and likely was quite heavy to walk in Lyanna mused.

 

“Your grace, I’ve come to put my life in your hands,” pleaded Septon Whytclyff on his knees as the High Nonna toddled his way to the Iron Throne, leaning heavily on his crystal staff.

 

“Your grace… I’ve come… to drag this heretic… b—back to the… Sept of Balor… to try him… by the Faith!” demanded the High Nonna as he wheezed heavily on his final approach.

 

Robert seemed to consider both men before saying, “In your name, High Septon, we will hear the Septon’s plea for the nonce.”

 

“Your grace—!” began the High Septon

 

“If we turned away each petitioner who came before us, would we not be turning our back on the Father’s justice and the Mother’s mercy?” asked Robert pointedly, which quieted the High Septon for the moment as he pulled out a silk cloth and began to dab the sweat off his forehead beneath his crystal crown.

 

“Bring his holiness a stool,” commanded Robert as he took note of the High Septon’s stoop.

 

“I thank you, your grace for your… consideration… but I assure you, _I can stand_ ,” insisted the High Septon quite determinedly as he leaned heavily on his staff.

 

“You may now speak, Septon Whytclyff. Tell us why you are so eager to place your life in my hands and are called a heretic,” ordered Robert.

 

“I thank you, your grace, but I fear I must warn you that my story is not a pleasing one to tell. It may cause some distress amongst your courtiers… as part of it concerns the Battle of the Bells that brought your grace such a... _victory_ ,” warned the Septon in a loud voice so all the court could hear, it responded with anxious whispers.

 

“Any man or woman who is a bit squeamish of these matters can leave whenever they see fit,” dismissed Robert, eager for the Septon to get on with his tale.

 

“The Battle of the Bells, as it is popularly called was a bloody and violent matter, do not you recall, your grace?” reminded Septon Whytclyff.

 

“Aye…” answered Robert.

 

“It was a horrifying sight to witness from behind the walls of our Sept. We tried letting in as many of the smallfolk as we could to shield them from the battle, but many did not escape the senseless killings that took place in every street and house. To observe the fighting it seemed to matter very little whether one person held a weapon or not—if they were unfamiliar to those… _honorable_ knights and soldiers… they were to be slaughtered. After the battle had finished and yourself claimed victory at your Bloody Wolf’s command, I toured the streets with what few survivors we had sheltered. I cannot tell you how many grieving parents I had to comfort, nor how many men and women found their spouses, kith, and kin mercilessly killed. Bowels strewn over the streets that have been stained red from the blood ever since. The smell though was the worst of it, and one which has not left he town completely despite the passage of two years.”

 

Lyanna felt uneasy by how the Septon was referring to Ned, and began to tremble as she recalled viewing the remains from the Battle of the Kingswood… now she imagined streets like those she saw in White Harbor or King’s Landing, bathed in the same blood. Gods it was a horror to think on.

 

“We recall how the town was after the battle perfectly well,” grumbled an obviously troubled Robert.

 

Septon Whytclyff confessed, “To tell the truth your grace I lost my faith that day. I could not help but wonder, how could the Seven allow such slaughter to come to so many simple innocents, who had done nothing wrong? How could such bloodshed be permitted?”

 

“If I may, your grace, The Seven are just—likely those who died committed some wrongs the Gods saw fit to punish them for,” commented the High Septon, who seemed to have recovered somewhat by this point.

 

“Did the babes not even a year old deserve such… judgment?” asked Septon Whytclyff and suddenly Lyanna saw an uneasy mood shift about the court as many worried glances were exchanged. This was not done however by the Queen Dowager, Lord Warden Bonifer, nor Princess Elia—all of whom continued to stare at Septon Whytclyff fiercely.

 

“It is not for us to question the will of the Seven,” answered the High Septon.

 

“I am most sorry to say your holiness, but you are wrong,” answered Septon Whytclyff calmly.

 

There was a collective gasp amongst the courtiers, which along with the whiter shade of pale the High Septon had turned in response, Lyanna thought was quite entertaining to see.

 

“I challenge you now to not let your faith slacken so that you let others speak of the faith in your stead. Question those who might speak for you. The Father’s Book of Laws, Verse 610,” answered Septon Whytclyff as though he were reciting something which Lyanna was wholly unacquainted with.

 

“Do not quote Seven Pointed Star at me! You take the quote completely out of context and your translation is rather… loose,” dismissed the High Septon.

 

“It is not loose at all,” countered Septon Whytclyff rather willfully.

 

“And you would know this, how?” queried Robert.  


The Septon sheepishly admitted, “I have taken the pains to translate the Seven Pointed Star from High Valyrian into the Common Tongue myself, your grace.”

 

That apparently was something not to be tolerated, judging by the reaction of the courtiers.

 

“Into such a base language as the Common Tongue?!” exclaimed the High Septon.

 

“The smallfolk and we speak it, do we not?” rebuffed Septon Whytclyff.

 

The High Septon added, “Aye, but the word of the Seven-who-are-One was written down in High Valyrian and so it should remain. It is the Seven’s natural language.”

 

“It is a foreign language to our scripture. Upon closer examination there are inconsistencies in the Seven Pointed Star that mark me as inconsistencies due to many different translators’ hands over many years. The High Valyrian at the beginning of the Father’s Book of Laws is far older and simpler than the complexities found in the Mysteries and Revelations of the Stranger at the end. I believe it was likely translated from an older language the Andals spoke before Valyrian spread to our people.”

 

“This is utter blasphemy! The Seven-Pointed Star was written all at once by the divinely inspired hand of our patriarch, Andell, from whom we all our descended,” pronounced the High Septon and many amongst the court agreed—though Lyanna caught more than a few who seemed… intrigued by Whytclyff’s words. Most notable of their ranks was Lord Gyles Rosby.

 

“Not all of us are descended from Andell, your holiness,” reminded Lyanna

 

The High Septon chose not to respond to her quip, which made Lyanna wish to see the man challenged further by this black robed Septon.

 

“Your grace, your holiness, as the commander of the Holy Hundred, if I may be so bold as to speak,” interjected another voice, and Lyanna looked up to see that Lord Warden Bonifer Hasty had taken a step forward.

 

“You may, Lord Warden,” replied an amused Robert, who seemed to derive equal if not more entertainment from these arguments as Lyanna did.

 

Bonifer began by requesting, “Septon Whytclyff, you mentioned you lost your faith after the Bloody Wolf’s carnage desolated the town. Pray tell how you regained it.”

 

“I had always found comfort in the Seven Pointed Star, my lord warden, that and walking about the untouched countryside helped me to see what I had been blind to before.”

 

“And what were you blind to, before?” asked Bonifer.

 

“That all this ceremony and fancy cloth we don ourselves up in is not part of the Faith at all. The true faith is a simple one—it has no need of all the extras we tack on to it through drawn out ceremonies, and mindless rituals. It only asks we live a decent life, be good to one another, and spend a lifetime learning the seven virtues each aspect of the One Creator has to teach us," surmised Septon Whytclyff.

 

“The one creator?” rounded Bonifer pointedly.

 

Septon Whytclyff extrapolated, “Aye, that is another point. Too often I see Septons and smallfolk alike speaking of the Seven as if they were seven distinct gods all their own like the Old Gods of the Bloody Wolf and the First Men. We say far too often “the Seven” and leave off “who are One”. The Seven are but aspects… parables even to teach us seven virtues that are all part of One being, one god—not seven distinct gods all their own.”

 

“I agree that too often the smallfolk might do as much,” conferred Lord Warden Bonifer and nods of agreement spread throughout the court before Bonifer continued, “but you were saying that the Faith is a simple one?”

 

“Aye. The Andal forefather Andell, we know was a simple man who spread the word of the One from a life of humble poverty. In a lot of ways he was more like myself or the smallfolk than he was a High Lord or King some Septons make him sound like. If our patriarch was so humble and simple in his message, have you then ever wondered my lord warden why Septons spread incense through a Sept, or why candles are lit before the alters, or even why we have statues of the Seven aspects of the One at all?” asked Septon Whytclyff.

 

“It is described in the Seven Pointed Star,” answered Lord Warden Bonifer simply.

 

“Forgive me, Lord Warden, but no it is not! Believe me I searched for the passages, but could not find any. The Seven Pointed Star merely challenges us to hold to our faith, spread the word to those who have not heard its message, and improve ourselves through learning the seven virtues. There is no talk of seven-sided buildings filled with incense, statues, or candles. Or for that matter of Septons in elaborately decorated robes. Andell it is said asked us each to have our own faith—why then do we need a High Septon to interpret the Faith for us? There is also no talk of utter superstitions one hears other Septons mention. During the battle I had a distressed mother come to me and beg for me to name her wounded and dying infant—so that he would not be condemned to the life of a _firefly_ , as she thought the souls of children who went unnamed were condemned to.”

 

The court could not contain its laughter at the smallfolk woman’s reported simplicity of mind. Robert’s was a full belly laugh, while Lyanna could not contain her own snorts.

 

Bonifer however remained calm and coolly collected while the room was in laughter about him, saying once the noise had died down, “Thank you, Septon Whytclyff, you’ve said more than enough for me to understand from where exactly it is your heresy stems from.”

 

“And that would be?” challenged Septon Whytclyff.

 

“You are a simple man, Septon Whytclyff and you fall victim to your own simplistic nature. There is but one common falsehood in all of your complaints which is the stem of your heresy, and that is _reason_.”

 

“Reason?” blustered Septon Whytclyff.

 

Lord Warden Bonifer neatly summed up, “Aye, you seek to reduce the Seven-who-are-One into simplistic terms as your limited mind can understand them. You expect logical common sense from that which is by its nature beyond such reasoning. In doing so you deny the mysteries that the Seven-who-are-One have to teach us, turning them into simple virtues, you seek to translate the Seven-Pointed Star because your simplistic mind seeks to break down to the barest bones of the Faith, you prefer the company of the rustic smallfolk to that other learned Septons and retreat to nature when faced with the complexities of the mystery of existence. Reason is all well and good when examining this world, for this world was made to be reasonable—but reason does not, cannot apply to that which is divine and of the next world. In short, Septon Whytclyff you deny the divine powers of the Seven-who-are-One in favor of a man-centered world view. You take the One out of the Seven, and thus cut yourself off from all divinity, entrapping yourself in this most vile of worlds that we are only meant to live in for a short while before ascending to either the Seven Heavens or descending to the Seven Hells. Your grace, I believe you have heard enough of what this heretic has had to say, I would urge you, as Commander of the Holy Hundred, to grant his holiness’ request.”

 

To this the majority of the court nodded their heads in agreement.

 

“Indeed, this farce has gone on long enough,” quipped the High Septon as though he had only recently recovered his voice.

 

“Please, your grace,” pleaded Septon Whytclyff.

 

“I myself do have one question for you, before I give you my decision. If you were so keen to find faith and comfort in nature, why did you not then turn to the Old Gods of the First Men? Their nameless gods are to be found everywhere in nature,” offered Robert.

 

“And practice a faith that has brought so much death to our people by that vile Bloody Wolf's fangs? I would sooner endure all the tortures of the Seven Hells than consider that barbarism!” challenged Septon Whytclyff with an anger that Lyanna had not seen this entire time from the man. Lyanna though was offended by how her brother was referred to, and she rose to defend her dear sweet Ned. But was held back by a gentle touch of Robert's.

 

Robert’s face darkened as he said, “Your Holiness, you have your man.”

 

“I thank you, your grace,” demurred the High Septon who then gave a look to the Goldcloaks who grabbed Septon Whytclyff firmly by his arms.

 

“May the One true God forgive you for this crime you commit in ignorance,” proclaimed Septon Whytclyff as he was firmly dragged out of the throne room, his dirty bare feet showing as he was. Lyanna sat back down upon her throne and thought more on the dreams she had seen of Ned in the heat of battle involuntarily, and tried to push them aside. That was in the past, and the past remains in the past, she comforted herself.

 

“My Lord Hand,” called Robert, clearly indicating that he should call in the next petitioner.

 

“Two more persons from the Stoney Sept, your grace,” answered Hoster Tully.

 

Robert sighed, shook his head and motioned for them to be sent in.

 

Lyanna was about through in being able to comfort herself when she took notice of the two women, obviously smallfolk dressed in their best—as simplistic as it was. They carried with them a bundle each, which were heard long before the women were present. They were two infants, whom were quite fussy, though their mothers seemed less than pleased to have to deal with their insistent little cries.

 

“Your grace, surely you must remember us… from before the battle…” spoke the one woman quite suggestively with a wink to Robert. Robert for his part had gone pale and was utterly speechless as he looked between the women.

 

And then she saw the babes were black of hair, and unless her eyes deceived her were blue of eye as well.

 

_Gods preserve me…_


	30. Raynald

**RAYNALD**  
  
“But Theon, Lord Stark said we were to leave Den alone,” reminded Raynald as he recalled the stern lecture that his guardian had given him after the last prank they’d pulled on the young silver blond haired five nameday old boy.  
  
“Is it our fault if Den sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong?” countered Theon impatiently before adding, “Are you gonna do it or not?”  
  
“Of course!” replied Raynald automatically—this would be fun after all. Theon grinned wickedly and they clasped their scared palms together like they had before and then went their separate ways. Theon scurried down the long corridor of the crypts and then up the steps, leaving Raynald alone in the crypts with his fellow first men. Raynald actually found the crypts quite comforting in a way… they and their constant drippings reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite recall beyond that it was familiar. And being amongst the tombs of first men like he and Lord Stark were, made Raynald feel tremendously proud. He was a Westerling after all, and they had been Kings and married Kings and Queens themselves not too long ago—just like the Starks. The only other place Raynald found himself at ease was when he visited Winterfell’s godswood with Lord Stark and the rest of the Starks and Snows. The gods of the first men were quiet gods, but they listened, Raynald was sure of that—after all Lord Stark told him the rustling of the leaves of the Weirwood tree meant the gods had heard him and were whispering their answer to him. The godswood was much better than the stuff Sept Lord Stark had had built for Lady Stark—though she seemed to have little use for the building and the chanting Septon who seemed to live there.  
  
Playing down in the crypts was also great fun, and scaring little Robb and Jon promised to be even greater fun—if Den just so happened to tag along with them, then that was his own problem. Raynald and Theon had prepared the small sacks of flour that they had knicked from the kitchens, with Raynald now hiding them behind one of the many statues of past lords of Winterfell. The plan was simple Theon would challenge Robb and Jon—who were quite nervous about entering the crypts—to prove that they weren’t babies anymore by going down into the crypts. Theon would then slip away after doing so and join Raynald in the crypts while they waited for Robb and Jon to come down. When Robb and Jon were quite close to where they were, Theon and Raynald would jump out from behind the crypts and throw the flour in their faces than run away. It was as foolproof a plan as their seven nameday old minds could think up.   
  
Were Rickon a little older they’d try and get the wild babe to come down as well, but Lady Stark, who was likely to give Robb, Jon, and Rickon another sibling any day now, kept him as close to her as she could. On some level Raynald was slightly jealous of Robb and Jon—they got to get even more siblings and even brothers, while all Raynald had was Jeyne. He loved Jeyne with all his heart, but she couldn’t climb trees, sword fight with sticks, or mud wrestle, which was why Raynald got along so well with Theon—even if he had the tendency to be a bit mean at times. Theon, to Raynald was like the brother he would never have, and Raynald was determined that he would keep this brother no matter what, and nothing, Raynald was determined, absolutely nothing would ever come between them. Theon had promised that they’d be brothers until their dying days—they’d even cut their hands, squeezed their palms together, and shared blood like Roose Stark and the Rickard Bolton had in one of Old Nan’s many tales about the North that they listened to aptly—though she had been interrupted before getting a chance to finish the story of the brothers Stark and Bolton, being called away to tend to Rickon who had nearly escaped the nursery while she told the story. Raynald was sure it ended happily—after all there had been a Lord Roose Bolton and a Lord Rickard Stark, had there not?  
  
Theon returned not too long thereafter and they took up their hiding position behind the statue of Lord Artos Stark. And it wasn’t long thereafter that they then heard footsteps echoing off the walls of the crypt chambers, coming ever closer. However after waiting for what felt like forever to Raynald’s mind he heard Theon whisper to him, “I don’t get it, they should have passed us by now.”  
  
And yet they still heard the footsteps echoing through the crypts.  
  
“Mayhaps they went into the lower levels?” suggested Raynald.  
  
“I hope not…” mumbled Theon, looking decidedly nervous. Theon could handle the upper levels of the crypts just fine, but only Raynald had gone deeper—accompanied by Lord Stark to see the statue of the old Stark King whose daughter or granddaughter married a Westerling King back in the days before the Lannisters ruled the Westerlands. It was quite dark and damp deep in the crypts, but none of it was worrying to Raynald, though Theon Raynald knew had an issue with deep dark places. The first level of the crypts could be lit well with torches, but the deeper you went the more moist the air became and the dimmer the torches grew. Not to mention the heat intensified further down as the crypts approached the hot springs that Winterfell sat ontop of.  
  
Theon looked as though he was about to suggest they abandon their scheme for something else when they heard voices at the far end of the level. Raynald quickly recognized Jon and Robb’s voices as they   
  
“And when I am a man grown I’ll be the Sword of the Morning! Your mother said I could!” boasted Jon proudly.  
  
“But if you’re in Dorne, how can you help me fight against the Wildlings and take all of Thenn?” questioned Robb  
  
“Don’t be simple. After I get Dawn I’ll come back North, and together we’ll take all the lands beyond the Wall!” proclaimed Jon  
  
“And what about, Den? You’ve got to do your part too!” insisted Robb.  
  
It was at this point Raynald heard the group was practically in front of Artos’ statue. With a nod, he and Theon jumped out screaming and with fists full of flour threw the white powder directly into the faces of all four: Robb, Jon, Den and Jeyne.  
  
 _Jeyne?!_  
  
Raynald dropped his bag of flour once he realized he had thrown flour right into his own sister’s face.  
  
 _What is she doing down here?_  
  
His sister, blinded by the flour and likely scared out of her mind ran as fast as she could in the other direction. Jon, Den, and Robb meanwhile wiped the flour from their eyes and tackled them both. Luckily the two four namedays and one five namedays boys were easy to wrestle off of them, or at least Raynald found it relatively easy to do so so he could chase after poor Jeyne. She obviously wasn’t looking where she was running, and with a horror Raynald realized just before it happened that Jeyne was awfully too close to the stairs leading down to the lower level. She tripped and tumbled down them.  
  
Oh no! Jeyne!  
  
Immediately Raynald ran after his sister.  
  
Theon called out behind him, “A little help here with these overgrown pups would be nice!”  
  
But Raynald’s mind was too focused on reaching his sister. What if she hurt herself?   
  
_It would be all my fault!_  
  
Just as Raynald reached the top of the stairs he looked down into the dim light below to see a sight he hadn’t expected. A hooded grey cloaked figure stood at the base of the steps and was in the process of picking up a whimpering Jeyne. The figure was large and bulky, leaning slightly on a gnarled wooden staff. After picking up and holding the crying Jeyne by one arm the figure then slowly ascended the steps, approaching Raynald.  
  
Raynald was frozen completely to the spot where he stood, fearful of this strange figure that had appeared and looked almost like the depictions of the Stranger on Lady Stark’s new Sept. When the figure reached the top of the steps he stood next to Raynald—towering over him like the tall heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood stood over top the other trees that surrounded it. To Raynald the figure seemed gigantic and quite burly. He then heard the figure speak—the deep rumbling tones of a man echoing from within the hood as he wiped Jeyne’s eyes clean with the hand that held the staff and said, “Hush girl, your brother’s here to love you.”  
  
Raynald felt a tremendous sense of guilt hearing the man’s words as he placed Jeyne down next to him, and she clutched at him and buried her face into his shoulder.  
  
“Theon is horrible and mean!” whimpered Jeyne, and Raynald could not help but feel even more guilty at being the one to throw flour in her face.  
  
“Who’s that?” challenged Robb, who to Raynald’s surprise had approached from behind. Not far behind him approached Jon, Den, and Theon—who seemed to have given up fighting upon the arrival of this new man.  
  
The man lowered his hood, revealing a very old man with wildly long and messy white hair and beard. His eyes were milky white and he obviously could not see a thing, though that did not prevent him from staring directly at them with those milky white eyes. It was almost as if he could see them despite obviously being blind. The man then threw back his cape and revealed underneath the woolen clothes of a Wolfswood hunter that Raynald had seen visit Winterfell from time to time. And directly on his stained white doublet was the clear embroidery of a grey direwolf.  
  
“Do you not see the badge of my house, lad?” asked the man  
  
“You’re a Stark, like me!” pronounced Robb happily.  
  
“Aye. Take me to Lord Stark, I have much to speak with him on.”   
  
And wordlessly, all of them complied leading the blind Stark to Lord Stark’s solar.


	31. Eddard II

**EDDARD**  
  
He could hardly believe it, but before him was a man he’d almost never expected to see alive again—his Great Uncle Brandon. The children had brought him to the solar where he was waiting for news from the birthing chambers. After the children had departed a scratching at the door was heard, to which his great uncle opened and in bounded a small wolf by the name of “White Fang” that seemed to have kept its distance from the children—thank the gods—whom his great uncle called “his eyes” with a chortle as he took a seat—the wolf doing likewise by his right side. The wolf’s eyes locked upon Ned, making him feel rather ill at ease.  
  
“Great Uncle Brandon…” said Ned amazedly.  
  
“Aye, lad. So you’re Rickard’s boy then, my namesake?” asked Brandon as he petted the wolf sitting by his side as though it were nothing more than a dog. The wolf stared at Ned discerningly.  
  
Ned bristled at being called lad, but he put it to the side for a moment. His great uncle would be near seventy namedays, in comparison to him, he would be a lad. “N—no, Brandon—my brother—died. The Mad King killed him and father,” explained Ned, not sure how aware his great uncle was of current events, being such a well-known recluse.  
  
The Old Wolf was silent at this, the petting having stopped and his left hand seemed to squeeze his staff while the wolf oddly growled quite low.  
  
Ned felt compelled to add, “We have a new king now… a friend of mine. King Robert of House Baratheon.”  
  
His great uncle replied with a solemn sigh, “Tis a great pity. But death comes for us all in the end. The younger brother then? The quiet one?”  
  
“Aye…” answered Ned.  
  
“And King Robert, eh? Wasn’t he the lad that Rickard sent you off to be fostered with at the Eyrie?” questioned Brandon lightly.  
  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“Is that all you can say lad, aye?” challenged the Old Wolf.  
  
“Why are you here?” asked Ned pointedly.  
  
His great uncle gave a full laugh before saying, “Ahh, to the point, I see. Well, I’ve come to give some advice to you lad before I leave this world for good.”  
  
Brandon stood up using his staff—seeming to find sitting down to be too unsatisfactory. He began to pace about the room, like a wolf trapped inside a cage does when it longs to be out and run free. His wolf however remained seated perfectly still, continuing to stare at Ned as he did this. Brandon then added, “Forgive me, but I find sitting in one place for too long bothers my legs.”  
  
“You were saying something about advice?” reminded Ned, his eyes following the elder Stark’s pacing after a long silence seemed to have fallen between them.  
  
“Aye. Now, I know you and the rest of the family must have wondered why for nearly twenty years no one has heard a word from me…”  
  
Brandon seemed to wait for Ned to respond, but Ned did not give one.  
  
“Aye, you are the quiet lad,” grumbled Brandon before continuing, “You see, during that time I was away.”  
  
“Where? The South?” asked Ned  
  
“Nay,” Brandon replied with a shake of his head.  
  
“Essos?”  
  
“Gods no!” laughed the Old Wolf with a full belly laugh.  
  
“Beyond the Wall?” asked Ned incredulously.  
  
“Since you’ll never guess, let me just tell it to ya outright. 'Neath the earth,” answered Brandon simply as he stood and placed his hands on Ned’s desk and stared at him with those milky white eyes that couldn’t possibly see. Ned could in fact see that he was quite serious, and that worried him.  
  
 _Has he lost his mind living alone in the Wolfswood? Might this have been my fate had my brother lived?_  
  
The next thing his great uncle said nearly confirmed Ned’s worst fears.  
  
“I’ve been spending time with the Children—well the only Child to remain south of the Wall. You see one day, back when I was a young man, I was out hunting this great stag—twelve points, a beautiful black buck—when suddenly my eyes caught sight of what I though was a doe standing not far in the woods. I turned to look and the buck sprinted away, but what I thought was a doe did not. Gods, how to describe the Children… they are at once human and animal, and yet something far different. The one I met was quite old with some of her fur having turned gray. She did not speak the common tongue, so at first I thought her a wild child escaped from some keep or other that had decided to wear a deer’s skin. She seemed lost and to have lost her mind so I took her back to my keep and provided her with bread, salt, and some meat that I’d stored up. She accepted the offering and then proceded to stay as my guest for a while. The next morning she seemed insistant that I come with her out into the forest. I decided to go with her as it give me a second chance at that black buck, and Gods did things change after that… she brought me to a cave deep in the wolfswood that I’d never seen before, and when I entered gods, it was like venturing to White Harbor—only ‘neath the ground—but the entire place was empty it seemed. She shared some odd weirwood-made gray and red paste with me as a meal and… everything changed after that. I woke up the next morning able to hear and see things I’d never done so before. Strangest of all I could understand the Child. Her name—as beautiful sounding as it was in her tongue—she said in ours it meant Root. She was the last of her kind to live south of the Wall she told me, and had grown quite lonely since all the others had passed on or left to serve the Last Greenseer. We've kept each other company, until she too joined her kin in death not but a sennight ago.”  
  
This sounded like some sort of tale spun by Old Nan. Either his Great Uncle had truly lost his mind… but there could be no other alternative. “The Last Greenseer?” asked Ned  
  
“Aye… far North of the Wall in a cave under a grove of weirwoods sits the Last Greenseer—a relative of yours through your Blackwood great-grandmother. After Root fed me the past I too could hear him whisper through the weirwoods as she did. The son that’s about to be born to you will do so after him.”  
  
Ned stopped at this, recalling a moment in the godswood not long after he had returned to Winterfell, when he had prayed to the Old Gods before the weirwood and heard a shout in the wind that he had thought said “Father!” but he had dismissed it at the time as him simply imagining things.  
  
“You have already heard him through the heart tree then?” asked Brandon with a smirk.  
  
“I have no idea of what you’re speaking about,” answered Ned unconvincingly.  
  
“Denying what you know to be true, lad, won’t help you or our family,” answered Brandon sagely.  
  
“Forgive me, but it is rather hard to believe what you are saying is possible. How can a son—assuming my wife gives birth to another—that has yet to be born speak to me years before he was even conceived?”  
  
At this Ned heard the wolf, who had kept silent during Brandon’s speech before this gave a huff and shook its head.  
  
“Do you have so little consideration for the faith of your forefathers, that you follow it in name only and dismiss what you do not understand to be tales spun by a nursemaid?” growled Brandon.  
  
Ned stood in response to this, slightly offended at the challenge to his faith, when he stopped to realize that his great uncle did have a point. He had never given his faith much of a thought before, simply keeping to the ways he’d been taught and leaving the rest to the gods.  
  
“You may be quiet but it’s good to see that there’s a good deal of the wolf in you yet,” laughed Brandon, before sighing and saying "You'll need it."  
  
  
Ned cautiously took his seat again.  
  
  
The Old Wolf then explained, “Weirwoods do not have the same sense of time as we men do. And the Greenseers who see through them can see and interact with any time which the tree has already seen. I myself have not the gift, but I have been made aware of it so I can recognize it in others. Your children will all be skinchangers—should they ever bond with an animal their dormant powers will awaken. But that boy your wife is in hard labor with now will be the most powerful one of them all, and it is for his case that I have been sent here by the Last Greenseer.”  
  
Suddenly his great uncle grew quite solemn so that he nearly resembled the old statues in the crypt of Winterfell.  
  
“Something has changed about this world, something drastic has knocked us off the path we had been on and now a new one is being laid out for us. This great change has brought about many other changes in its wake—changes which threaten the continued existence of men in Westeros if some of them are not addressed and contained now. Your son being born now at some point must leave you and your wife’s care to journey North beyond the Wall to the Last Greenseer. He will be guided there by two children of a friend and loyal bannerman very close to you. They must be permitted to make the journey, for it is only from the Last Greenseer that your son will be able to learn to control his powers. Should you stop him from leaving when the time arrives, I cannot tell you how disastrous the consequences will be.”  
  
 _He’s lost his mind, there is no other explanation… can there?_  
  
The Old Wolf sighed, “You may not believe me now, lad, but one day you will. I pray to the Old Gods that then it won’t be too late. Come White Fang… the time draws near… and I can hear your brothers howl for you in the woods.”  
  
“You’re leaving?” asked Ned  
  
“If you won’t listen to me, lad, then I won’t waste what little time I have left alive trying to move a stone wolf.”  
  
“A stone wolf?!” exclaimed Ned.  
  
“Aye, living in the Vale has turned you to stone… I pray it won’t bring you or our house to disaster.”  
  
Here was a man who had known his grandfather, his last link to his house’s past, about to leave—declaring he would soon die. Ned knew he could not “Wait! You can’t leave now.  
  
“The hour draws nigh, lad, and I would rather die ‘neath the trees than in a manrock such as this,” spoke his great uncle oddly, his wolf now scratching at the door.  
  
Wishing to keep him he asked, “Tell me more about how you see the Old Gods…”  
  
“Do you truly wish to listen?” asked his great uncle.  
  
Ned continued, “Aye… and you’ve yet to see Benjen. You should speak with him before you go.”  
  
His uncle grumbled, “Let us go to the godswood, lad, if I cannot die in the Wolfswood, let me die ‘neath a Heart Tree at the very least.”  
  
Ned acquiesced, sending a guard to fetch Benjen and bring him to the godswood. They were on their way to the godswood the next moment. As they exited his solar he mentioned, “You speak as if your death were imminent.”  
  
“My death will come when your boy draws his first breath, the Last Greenseer told me as much.  
  
“Of course he did,” replied Ned as they hustled down a set of stairs and came to the door which led out into the courtyard. For a man supposedly in his final hours, he was quite spry.  
  
“There you go, not listening again!” snarled the Old Wolf. White Fang trotted along side of them.  
  
“I am listening!” growled Ned, feeling like a child answering his kinsman as such.  
  
“No you hear but you do not listen!” insisted Brandon as they reached the gates of the godswood.  
  
Entering the godswood with his great uncle was a far different experience than he had ever had before. The shadows beneath the trees grew darker, a breeze seemed to pick up, and the leaves rustled in a manner Ned had never seen before.  
  
“Yes, yes, I’ve told him. Don’t get so out of sorts!” spoke his great uncle to no one in particular.  
  
They walked through the godswood at a tremendous pace, White Fang bounding on ahead of them, Ned felt an odd for the first time walking through it—as though he were being watched. No it was simply his imagination.  
  
“He hears, but he doesn’t listen!” was also shouted to no one in particular.  
  
“Father!” called out a voice, and Ned looked up to see Robb come bounding over the moss covered ground to his side. When the boy reached him he clung to him as if he’d seen something terrifying.  
  
“Fear not little wolf trout, there’s nothing to be afraid of here,” tutted Brandon as he continued onward.  
  
Ned echoed, “Your great-great uncle is right, Robb, there’s nothing to fear.”  
  
Robb only responded by clinging to him tighter.  
  
 _He must have seen the wolf…_  
  
“Where’s Jon and Den?” asked Ned, knowing Robb rarely went anywhere without those two, and that they would be of comfort to him.  
  
Robb dutifully answered, “Den stayed inside with Jeyne… Jon’s by the Heart Tree.”  
  
Ned nodded and picked his four nameday old son up and carrying him, hurried after the Old Wolf and White Fang.  
  
When they arrived at the Heart Tree Jon was indeed there, swinging a stick around in imitation of the drills he’d no doubt seen Raynald and Theon being taught with their practice swords. He stopped upon seeing their approach, bowing upon their arrival. Brandon then reached into the carved mouth of the weirwood—into the heart of the heart tree and pulled out from it a handful of small greyish-white seeds covered in red sap. He then reached out and placed them in Ned’s hand. His wolf kept his distance from the children instead circling them as it wove through the nearby trees.  
  
His great-uncle said, “If you will not listen then take these, ground them into a paste and eat it. Be warned though—for you will not be the same man after doing so. Believe me…”  
  
“What’s he talking about, father?” asked Robb curiously.  
  
“The Old Gods, lad. The Old Gods,” answered Brandon as he then sat beneath the weirwood and let out a breath.  
  
“Oh,” remarked Robb, who then adopted a rather solemn face as Jon was apt to have at times.  
  
The Old Wolf then spoke quite gravely, earning the attention of both Robb and Jon, “The Old Gods, lads, seek to keep the balance in this world. They care little for the affairs of men beyond how their actions tip the scales they seek to keep even.”  
  
“Ned!” called out another voice, and he turned to see Benjen approaching them at a quick run.  
  
When Benjen had arrived, Ned introduced him, “Benjen, this is our great-uncle Brandon.”  
  
“It… is an honor to meet you,” recited Benjen as he caught his breath.  
  
Their great-uncle nodded in response.  
  
Benjen then turned to him and said, “Ned, the maester was looking for you.”  
  
“Cat?” Ned asked  
  
“Is another brother coming?” asked Robb with delight.  
  
“Aye… she’s having a hard time of it,” answered Benjen.  
  
“I told you she would,” added Brandon.  
  
“I’ll—” began Ned, unconsciously pocketing the seeds for the moment.  
  
“Go lad, your brother and I can look after the pups… not to mention the squid and seashell hiding in the trees,” assured Brandon.  
  
Ned nodded and rose and hurried out of the godswood. As he crossed the courtyard he felt a few drops of rain hit him, and he hoped Benjen had enough sense to take everyone inside. He was soon met with a maid, Lyra, who brought him to the passage outside the birth chambers.  
  
“How is my wife, Luwin?” demanded Ned upon seeing the Maester leave the chambers to speak with him.  
  
“She insists upon having you by her side, my lord,” answered Luwin.  
  
“And the babe?” asked Ned.  
  
“The babe… was positioned wrongly. Its feet were aimed to come out first. I’ve done my best to turn it, but I am afraid there will be complications besides that…” said Maester Luwin outside of the birthing chambers, pulling at the choker which was his chain.  
  
“What do mean, complications?” demanded Ned.  
  
“Prepare yourself, my lord, for there’s a lot of blood…” warned Maester Luwin  
  
And gods were there.  
  
“Ned!” called out Catelyn, half out of breath. She was sweaty and in a tremendous amount of pain. He was at her side in an instant and holding her hand the next. She gripped it harder than she or any man ever had before. She was urged to push and she did as much. Outside Ned heard a roll of thunder. Ned asked one of the maids leaving to refresh the basin of water to see if Benjen had brought everyone from the godswood inside. When she returned she answered that he had. The birth lasted for quite a long time, the storm drawing ever closer until the torrent of rain and wind could be heard outside of Winterfell. On and on this went for what felt like several hours, until at last with a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning his son Brandon was born. After he squealed his first breath of air the storm seemed to ease some.  
  
But what Ned noted next was the long howl he heard from the direction of the godswood. A mournful howl that sent a shiver down his spine, and soon was joined by a few others from further off joining to make an eerie chorus that frightened Cat’s exhausted mind. He gave her hand a firm squeeze.  
  
“They’re just welcoming our son into the world,” he assured her.  
  
  
Catelyn seemed to accept this, but did not let go of his hand.  
  
  
The next morning his great-uncle was found dead beneath the heart tree.


	32. Denys V

  
**DENYS**  
  
The wedding of Lorra Waynwood to Stannis Baratheon was a highly attended affair, including many Valelords such as Royce, Corbray, Elesham, Coldwater, Belmore, Redfort, Hunter, Lynderly, Upcliff, and the Arryns of Gulltown; Stormlords such as Estermont, Dondarrion, Tarth, Tudley, Mertyns, and Morrigen; and even Robert and the recently pregnant Queen Lyanna attended for the sake of Stannis and Lorra. The royal family had come by way of Cracklaw Point, where Queen Lyanna had been accepted as the Lady of the lands and inaugurated by way of a drinking competition that the First Men had insisted upon to prove her worth as a woman of First Men heritage. According to Robert’s boastings Lyanna had grumbled about the whole thing, but had held her ale far more than any man who challenged her, thus earning the respect of her men. As such both King and Queen were in merry moods at this feast. For the first time, Denys thought he saw the young Queen happy. They certainly were the source of most of the joy in the feast in the sun-filled great hall of the Eyrie after the ceremony that had taken place in the high-windowed and stained-glass Sept of the Eyrie. Not even Stannis and Lorra were as boisterous—though Denys thought he caught a few meaningful side glances from both husband and wife.  
  
But beyond that, the mood encapsulated at the Eyrie was a somber one. Since the abduction of Elyssa, his youngest goodsister had been in a sullen, quiet mood—quite unlike the cheery sweet girl she had been. Lysa, he heard, had attempted to pull her out of her mood but to little avail. For the wedding she sat next to a not much older Lordling, by the name of Petyr Baelish, who had just recently become a man grown and was seeking to improve his lot in life out from under his father’s strict thumb—or so Lysa told Denys after introducing him to the young man who’d been a ward to her own father for some time. Lysa it seemed had also convinced Petyr to sit and talk with Elyssa to try and pry a smile out of her—but to little avail, as Elyssa simply moved her food about her plate and snapped at Petyr when he asked her to dance. That Denys knew was a large sign that something was wrong, as Elyssa had always loved dancing.  
  
“You seem troubled Lord Denys,” commented the merry Queen, who apparently had approached him.  
  
“Much troubles me, your grace.”  
  
“Denys, call me Lyanna—we’re at a wedding feast where most of the guests are far to drunk to care for titles—I won’t tell if you don’t,” Lyanna muttered conspiratorially.  
  
Denys smiled and nodded.  
  
“Now, about what troubles you?” asked Lyanna  
  
“It is my youngest goodsister, Elyssa.”  
  
“Oh… she was the one who had been abducted, hadn’t she?” asked Lyanna  
  
“Aye.” He figured that Robert must have told her that.  
  
“I know something of what she is going through… it is… a hard matter to deal with,” stated Lyanna rather distantly.  
  
“I only wish I could find someway to make her… well at the very least comfortable if not happy. I’ve tried speaking with her, engaging her in her favorite activities, but nothing seems to put her at ease.”  
  
Lyanna nodded and added, “It’s a matter that she’ll have to settle on her own, at her own pace. Tell me, has she been home?”  
  
“Nay… she was abducted not far from there and the raids of the mountain clans has increased as of late,” admitted Denys gruffly. In fact he had had to have Stannis arrive at the other end of the Vale of Arryn at Longbow Hall and travel across the Vale itself—cutting out the routes which went through or alongside the Mountains of the Moon for the safety of the wedding party.  
  
“Poor girl, she cannot even find solace in her own home as I did…” admitted the Queen, but then an idea seemed to come to her  
  
“Denys, I would be quite honored to have your goodsister become one of my ladies in waiting. Rhaella has been going on and on about my needing to have a few ladies in waiting of my own as Queen, and I would have your goodsister as my first one,” offered Lyanna.  
  
“She is rather young for such a position,” mentioned Denys hesitantly, not entirely sure that.  
  
“Aye, but I am a young Queen, am I not?” countered Lyanna.  
  
Denys said he would then propose the matter to Elyssa, though he doubted it would meet with her approval. To his surprise his youngest goodsister accepted the offer so quickly he felt the need  
  
“You need not feel completely obligated to go, Elyssa.”  
  
“It is an honor to serve the Queen,” remarked Elyssa almost as if she were a younger Lorra than herself.  
  
“Aye, but I would not have you think that the Eyrie is not your home as well,” mentioned Denys earnestly.  
  
“But the Eyrie is _not_ my home. I thank you Denys for attempting to be a good goodbrother to me, but after what happened in the foothills… I cannot live here anymore. I will go anywhere else if I must, but I will not live in the Vale,” admitted Elyssa as the first honest thing she’d said to him since the clansmen had taken her.  
  
“Then you have my blessing—not that you need it,” he said  
  
And for a moment a smile spread across Elyssa’s face and she seemed like the girl she had been—the one who had given him once with a wreath of blue and white lilies she’d made herself. And she hugged him and hurried off to speak with Lyanna about the matter. On some level Denys felt rather sad to see Annalys’ youngest sister so eager to be off.  
  
“Tis a happy wedding,” interjected the voice of one Norys Arryn.  
  
“Aye, that it is, cousin,” answered Denys as he looked now to Lorra and Stannis who were accepting the well wishes of Lorra’s older sister, Salys and her husband, Lord Ronnel Elesham. As he looked he saw Lorra seemed complete with delight to see her elder sister—hugging her quite profusely at the moment.  
  
“I have good news, my lord cousin. My wife is at long last with child,” added Norys.  
  
“Many congratulations to you. Did my suggestions help the matter?” asked Denys.  
  
Norys nodded his head and blushed, averting his eyes for the moment.  
  
“Have you yet found a man for the position of Justice?” questioned Norys, decidedly changing the subject, Denys noted.  
  
“Nay, I am still looking over a few last candidates,” replied Denys  
  
In truth the potential people had come down to three people that he knew not that well, and his gut told him to trust very little. The most prominent of which was Petyr Baelish, who Lysa was eager to see do well by nominating him for the position. Denys however did not like the way he looked at Lysa, nor was his answer to why he had been forced to return home from being fostered at Riverrun—that a simple misunderstanding had been its cause—satisfy him as being the complete truth. Almost immediately Denys felt he could tell the young man thrived on telling people half-truths and omissions. There was just something about him that seemed dishonest. He also was still rather young, being only seven and ten namedays, and that is the reason why he told Lysa that Petyr was not suited for the job when she pressed him on it not long after Norys had excused himself.  
  
“Lord Lothar in the King’s Landing is only a few namedays his senior,” she muttered rather darkly but said nothing further on the subject.  
  
He reasoned, “I would not object to finding some sort of… apprenticeship or second in command place for your friend, but a full out leadership position?! Beyond giving him the customs house in Gulltown to manage, it would be unwise to put so many expectations on one so young. It would be setting him up for failure.”  
  
“If he could manage the customs house in Gulltown on his own, then why not give him that?” asked Lysa  
  
“You are quite eager to help him,” noted Denys.  
  
At this Lysa’s resolve seemed to soften some as she admitted, “It’s just… we were always close as children. He’s almost like family to me.”  
  
There was something Lysa seemed to be not saying, and that bothered Denys—though he supposed she was entitled to have her childhood secrets.  
  
“Did he ask for you to speak with me on his behalf?” he asked.  
  
After a long pause, Lysa nodded her head and admitted, “Aye, but that is not the only reason I suggest him. He could do well as a customs house manager, Denys. He has quite a formidable mind for figures and sums. And he needs some way of making his own way in the world. You could be like Jon was to you after your father…”  
  
She did not complete her thought, simply leaving it to tail off as Denys mulled it over.  
  
“I will speak with him on the subject,” admitted Denys.  
  
Lysa seemed to glow as he said as much, saying, “Thank you!” as she threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth. It was the most public kiss that either had given one another, and caused Denys to feel a bit of heat rise to his face as he thought of the rest of his guests witnessing such an intimate act of affection, but in that moment as soon as he thought of it, his eyes looked to how Lysa’s dress was thoroughly well-fitted this evening, and the setting sun made her auburn hair glisten like brightly polished bronze.  
  
 _Others take them all… if they’re too drunk to care if I call the Queen by her title, then I can kiss my wife in a secluded corner of the hall._  
  
And so Denys, caught up in the emotions of the moment, returned her kiss with one of his own. It was a gentle but firm kiss that he could tell Lysa wanted to melt into by how her knees bent and he had to pull her closer into his grasp to keep her from falling to the ground he suspected. To which she replied by gaining a strength she had not had a moment earlier and more firmly returning the kiss and being insistent on the meeting of tongues.  
  
It was then that a throat was cleared right near them. Denys opened his eyes to see Lord Yohn Royce, dressed in the breastplate of his house’s famous bronze armor with runes on it, likely in ceremonial respect.  
  
“You wanted to speak with me, Lord Arryn?” asked Lord Royce with a smirk.  
  
 _Seven Hells! Did you have to come now?_  
  
“Aye, I do. If you would give me a few minutes I’ll join you by those doors,” said Denys pointing out the large oak doors at the entrance to the Great Hall. He wanted to have a few moments alone with Lysa before heading off with Lord Yohn to discuss matters concerning the mountain clans and his “guest”.  
  
“Take as much time as you need my lord, the business of getting an heir has many steps,” mentioned Lord Yohn good-naturedly as he departed for the aforementioned doors.  
  
Denys felt Lysa stiffen in his grasp.  
  
 _Others take Lord Yohn…_  
  
“He meant nothing by it, Lysa,” assured Denys, hoping to soothe her nerves.  
  
“Of course he did not… like how Lady Waynwood mentions how she is proud to have three strong sons, she too means nothing by it,” grumbled Lysa as she let out an exasperated sigh and turned to look out the windows out upon the view of the setting sun on the not so distant mountains.  
  
“We’ll have a son one day, and when we do, you can hold a great feast in his honor and invite all the Valelords to come and see him,” whispered Denys conspiratorially as he wrapped his arms around her and leaned in to embrace her from behind. She stood as still as a statue for a moment before easing once again into his grasp. They remained like that for several moments before speaking again, simply taking in the reds, oranges, and purples of the setting sun.  
  
“Hurry back, I would like to try again this very night,” whispered Lysa as she turned her head to kiss him. Denys had to suppress a wince upon hearing that. He did not like the kind of sex they had when she was focused on producing an heir. She focused far too much on completing the act as quick as possible so as to repeat the act as many times in the night as they could go. It took all the pleasure out of the act and exhausted him far more quickly than he would like to admit. It was not that he didn’t want to have an heir, but if the Seven deamed it was not the time to do so, then he could hardly argue with their wishes, now could he?  
  
He met Lord Yohn by the large oak doors to the great hall that were carved with a relief of the falcon in flight against a moon.  
  
“I trust the Lady Arryn was quite sad to see you depart,” japed Lord Yohn.  
  
“Aye, but I would ask you, my lord to be conscious of what you say to my wife—even in jape. She is a fish at heart, and used to the easy streams of the Riverlands, not our stone hard ways of the mountains and Vale,” reminded Denys courteously as he led them into the direction of the sky cells, where young Cedrik awaited them.  
  
“Beg my pardon, my lord. I meant no offense to your lady wife. My own wife had troubles the first few years of our own marriage—we eventually figured out the… problem and have had several children ever since.”  
  
Denys was smart enough to see the bait that had been laid in Lord Yohn’s words and so he simply stated, “I am glad for both your sakes that it was so easily remedied.”  
  
“Have you given any consideration to your youngest goodsister’s marriage, now that her sister is wed?” asked Lord Yohn once they were well away from the Great Hall.  
  
Denys frowned at this line of questioning, “My youngest goodsister is not yet a girl of four and ten.”  
  
“But she will be, soon. And after that a girl of five and ten then six and ten, and so on and so forth. Believe me, I know how fast one’s daughters can age. My eldest girl, Ysilla, will soon be nine, gods it seems like yesterday I held her in my arms as a squalling red little thing. I’ve got to consider what’s best for her future now, before all the best available young lordlings are taken. The Lady Elyssa though has you to look out for her, my lord. She will likely fare well with whatever match you make for her.”  
  
Denys grunted in agreement as they came to the cell which was Cedrik’s. Denys had his guard unlock the door for him and fetch the boy so they could talk at the common table of the dungeons where prisoners were brought to talk after their stint in the sky cells. Denys heard the winds of the Eyrie rattle as the door was opened. Denys and Lord Royce took their seats on one side of the common table and not a minute later did the guard push the willful Cedrik towards the table and into the chair. Cedrik kept his grey eyes downcast and away from meeting either Lord Yohn or Denys, as was typical when Denys tried to speak with the brooding boy of likely three and ten. He attempted each day, and each day, Cedrik failed to respond.  
  
“Cedrik, I’ve brought you a visitor,” stated Denys and he waited politely for the boy to respond, but he continued to sit in his chair and play with his fingers in a lackadaisical manner.  
  
“Are you going to meet my eyes boy, or do I have to grab your chin?” grunted Lord Yohn discontentedly.  
  
At this challenge, Cedrik, for an instant looked up briefly before turning his eyes back down. Denys expected Cedrik to keep his eyes down, but instead the boy turned them up again to look at Lord Royce, more specifically his armor. Cedrik began to mutter something indiscernable and then he stood from his seat and backed up.  
  
“Speak up, boy!” bristled Lord Royce.  
  
“Iceslayer… I will do what you command,” pledged Cedrik, who now stood tall and bowed his head ceremoniously.  
  
 _Iceslayer?_  
  
Lord Royce did not miss a beat, “Whatever _I_ command?”  
  
“Aye,” answered Cedrik with a firm nod.  
  
  
“Tell me why did you attacked my party as we were traveling?” demanded Denys.  
  
Lord Royce gruffly proded, “Answer him, boy.”  
  
“I… saw her and wanted to steal her… make my father proud… carry on the clan…” admitted Cedrik.  
  
  
“Steal her?” asked Denys.  
  
“It’s an old custom of the First Men. That when a boy wants to take a girl to wife, he steals her. The wildlings still practice it north of the Wall to my best knowledge,” explained Lord Yohn quickly, but then he turned to Cedrik “And it was outlawed in the Vale not long after the Andals founded their kingdom. Some First Men families accepted this along with a few other laws aimed at restricting some of the more savage First Men traditions—primarily the custom of stealing. The First Men who had been rulers of the land and been pushed into the Mountains of the Moon however were not so eager to reconcile, and others liked the laws put in place by the first Arryns even less, and joined the outcasts to create the Mountain clans we know today,” added Lord Royce  
  
Truth be told, Denys had never considered why the mountain clans had chosen to fight. He simply knew that they had. He now wondered what would happen with news of King Robert’s “First Men Revival” as it was being called, reached the mountain clans? And what with old laws established by his Arryn ancestors to be considered—mayhaps they should even be reconsidered if Robert were to establish a Royal decree that conflicted with old Vale laws. He would have to talk with Robert and Lord Royce, as well as consider the best way to go about considering how this “First Men Revival” might agitate relations with the mountain clans further, and how to deal with that if it did. He hoped that mayhaps though there could be a way to improve relations with the mountain clans. The idea of ever being able to come to complete peace with them was unimaginable, too much blood had been spilled over the many thousands of years since the Andals set foot in the Vale, but to negotiate a trading deal which led to less raiding might be worth improving relations over—especially if they could cull the potential increase in raids that could occur in the wake of the news of Robert's First Men Revival reaching them… that would be the better route. Mayhaps an old law or two could be repealed (though not all of them), some sort of trading posts could be established by his Gulltown Arryn cousins and their merchant associates that the mountain clans could come to trade for what they needed instead of having to raid for it, and then the Vale could know some peace. The only problem with the plan was what could the mountain clans trade for either the clans or the merchants to see any benefit from such a turn of events?  
  
“You mentioned you had a father,” prodded Lord Royce.  
  
“Aye, he’s the Mists of the Sons of the Mists,” answered Cedrik proudly.  
  
Now that was one thing Denys did recognize—how the clans referred to their clan leaders. The Sons of the Mists referred to their clan leader as “Mists”, “Ears” for the Black Ears, and “the Red Hand” for the Burned Men.  
  
 _No wonder the mountain clans are provoked now…_


	33. Jaime II

**JAIME**

 

The trouble in the Westerlands continued to get out of hand. Although Robert had sent men from the Crownlands and Stormlands to help deal with the issue of Reachmen and Riverlanders smallfolk, other tangential issues had popped up. Most recently the news of this purging of Ironseed by his Aunt Genna’s husband (no doubt Aunt Genna’s idea as she was the one who controlled that marriage) was just the latest in troubles. This along with Cersei’s impending marriage to Ser Gareth—which had been delayed until she had recovered her wits, was to bring him home as the King’s agent to bring order to the troubles in the West. He rode out with several second sons of Stormlords and a few members of Lord Warden Hasty’s Holy Hundred that were sorely needed as most of the Crownlands and Stormlords were growing tired of hearing of the continuing problems in the West.

 

But before he was to set out with the extra support from the Holy Hundred, Lord Warden Hasty tasked him with allowing his men to witness the execution of Septon Whytclyff, which they were all too eager to see. He arranged so that after the execution they would leave immediately. So from the top of his horse and his men’s horses they witnessed the execution from the far end of the square.

 

The event was to take place in the square in front of the steps of the Sept of Balor. The High Septon sat coughing with increasing fury upon a crystal throne which had been brought out for him at the top of the steps while at the foot of the steps a wooden gallows had been erected which Septon Whytclyff was brought up to—a noose well prepared and slung around his throat. The square was crowded with smallfolk and nobles of every walk of life. Goldcloaks created a wide clearing around the gallows

 

“Before you are to take that… final journey left in the great mystery of life… is there any possibility that you will now… denounce your heresy… and recant your beliefs? The Seven Hells… are a torment… unlike any experienced… here in life. Embrace the protection… of the Faith once again… for the sake of your soul… while you can Septon… before it is too late,” urged the High Septon as he stood, coughing and wheezing while leaning upon his crystal staff which shown the colors

 

“Will the High Septon tempt me thus? Will you prey upon my fears like a demon? By the King’s beard, now I see truly… may the One who is Seven give you blood to drink for such an odious crime!” raged Septon Whytclyff.

 

The High Septon began to cough and simply waved at the black hooded man in a robe with the Seven-Pointed Star to push the Septon off the ledge so that he could swing and slowly suffocate. The wrinkled old man then motioned for a boy to bring him a cup of water, from which he drank as the hooded man pushed Whytclyff off the ledge. Whytclyff’s body swung forward and backwards—crashing his legs into the platform with a sickening crack. Just then the sound of something shattering was heard from the steps above. Everyone’s eyes turned upward to the High Septon, who had dropped his crystal goblet and was coughing even more furiously. Most distinctively against his white robes was the spots of blood which fell from his mouth and sprayed with each cough. And the blood seemed only to grow more prominent as it trickled down his chin and stained his robes. There truly wasn’t a lot of blood, from what Jaime could see, but against the white robes it was far more noticeable than it would have been otherwise.

 

What happened next, Jaime would never forget. Utter chaos broke out in the square.

 

A man, dressed in Septon’s robes burst forth from the crowd and rushed to save the dying Whytclyff by grabbing at his legs and lifting his body up so the rope was not tight. However he as beaten back by one of the few guards not in complete shock by the High Septon’s drooling of blood. By this point the servants had swarmed his Holiness

 

“The Septon was right!” called out a voice from the crowd.

 

“Save the Septon!” called out another and suddenly the crowd pushed in at once towards the gallows—but they did not realize, as Jaime saw, that they were too late, for Whytclyff’s face had gone slack.

 

The crowd was pushing in all around them, trying to reach the steps of the Sept of Balor, and with this sudden change his horse beneath him was beginning to grow skittish. He saw several of his fellow men likewise trying to soothe and calm their mounts.

 

“Out of the square!” he commanded. The last thing he needed was for one of his men’s horses to toss him in the throbbing mob of people. As he turned Jaime saw a few of the Goldcloaks swing their swords to try and keep the crowd at bay, but beyond injuring—maybe even killing a few in the front—this did little to deter the growing riot that Jaime could now se was about to erupt. And here he was stuck on his horse.

 

“Move!” commanded Jaime to the nearby smallfolk, terrified that someone might get trampled on unintentionally.

 

His horse began to back up and with a little urging turned out of the square and down a nearby deserted alley, his men following him and the horse letting its emotions get away with itself as it broke out into a trot—followed by the other horses not too far behind. When they had journeyed a good distance away, Jaime found he was able to regain control of his mount once again. After doing so he barked orders at more than half his men to dismount, saying that they would return to the square, while commanding the rest to keep a watch on their horses. That most of the men eager to return were from the Holy Hundred should have worried Jaime, but in the pressure of the moment Jaime cared not.

 

By the time that they had returned to the square they were encountering the fleeing crowd who ran in all the directions, with several smallfolk laying dead at the feet of a few Goldcloaks, with order having been somewhat restored simply by the fleeing of the crowd. The High Septon had been left forgotten on his crystal throne and the doors to the Sept of Balor had been slammed shut. None of this would bode well. One of the Goldcloaks was still in the process of beating with the pummel of his sword the fallen Septon who had first burst forth—groans emitting from the black robes. Jaime strode forth, drawing his sword and meeting it with the Goldcloak’s managed to stop the man from suffering any further.

 

“The crowd has fled,” snarled Jaime definitively and suddenly the Goldcloak seemed to grow aware of his surroundings and backed down.

 

“We’ll take the wayward Septon prisoner, you’ve done your duty,” interjected another voice, and Jaime turned to see Ser Erren, the leader of the small detachment of the Holy Hundred that had been sent with Jaime.

 

The Goldcloak stared in anger at the Septon before snorting, putting his sword away and leaving him to them and leaving to join his fellow Goldcloaks on the edge of the square.

 

“H—help me…” whimpered the Septon, who Jaime looked at to see was hardly older than a boy.

 

_He must have only recently taken his robes and vows… and they’ll kill him for what he’s done…_

 

And suddenly words that he had sworn at Harrenhal, upon being knighted, echoed through his mind.

 

_I swear to protect the weak…_

 

Jaime heard Erren approaching, and he whispered back, “Follow my lead.”

 

“Ser Jaime, we should take him to the Red Keep before we depart,” suggested Ser Erren in a tone that implied anything but a suggestion. Jaime didn’t particularly like his tone, but then the man must consider himself the most senior, for he was near Bonifer’s age. But Jaime had the command—by order of the King.

 

Jaime stood and met Ser Erren’s steely blue-green eyes and sharp face.

 

“Unfortunately he’s dead,” declared Jaime, and he saw out of the corner of his eye the young Septon fall limp.

 

Ser Erren continued his approach and upon arriving examined the young Septon with his armored foot, kicking him to test Jaime’s testimony.

 

“Do I lie, Ser Erren?” challenged Jaime. He scowled, though he felt like smirking.

 

“May the Father be just in seeing that the bloodshed he caused this day is fully weighed out,” commented Ser Erren with a sigh and they left the Septon laying there in the square before returning to their horses.

 

_Gods forgive me, but I could hardly do anything else…_


	34. Raynald II

**RAYNALD**

 

Theon and Raynald had finished their morning sword practice drills early. Ser Rodrik complemented them even and gave them the rest of the morning off—though Raynald could tell by how high the sun was in the sky that that would not be for very long. Still, Raynald and Theon were determined to make the most of whatever time they had, and so after stripping themselves of their padded armor and putting away their wooden swords, they made a mad dash for the godswood. The godswood since the death of Lord Stark’s kin had become home to that kin’s wolf which seemed to come and go from the castle as it pleased. Raynald thought it odd that the wolf should linger here in Winterfell, but then mayhaps it was waiting for its master’s return. In the meanwhile it provided Theon and Raynald many hours of entertainment seeing how close they could get to the wolf before it snapped at them, once Theon had managed to grab it by its tail even. Hopefully the wolf would be sleeping in the godswood this morning.

 

They had hardly gone far from the gate when a pair of feet swung down and nearly kicked Theon in the face. Raynald looked up immediately to see Den Snow barely holding onto the low hanging branch which bent even lower under the additional weight of Robb and Jon—though they were closer to the base of the tree where the branch was far thicker.

 

“Watch it!” called out Theon.

 

Den whimpered for a moment before Robb called out from above, “Let go, Den… it’s not that far.”

 

Raynald, seeing the issue that would come from Den letting go if Theon continued to stand where he did, pulled Theon out of the way a few seconds before Den let go and in a blur of white hair, he fell to the ground. Once he’d recovered from his landing, Den sat up and smiled towards Robb and Jon.

 

“Well, are you gonna apologize?” demanded Theon to the younger boy in front of him.

 

Den stared at him in response, not daring to say a word.

 

“Raynald and I are lords—so says Maester Luwin, while you’re just a Snow… you should apologize!” insisted Theon

 

Again the boy on the ground in front of them stared back, this time with a quick nervous glance towards Robb and Jon.

 

“He slipped! It was an accident!” called out Robb as he shimmied himself across the branch closer to get closer to Theon and Den.

 

“I want to hear him say it!” asserted Theon

 

Den again looked nervously between Theon, and Robb and Jon.

 

“Leave off him!” growled Jon.

 

“Doesn’t he ever talk?” interjected Raynald before Theon could likely call the other Snow his full name. Raynald knew precisely well where that argument went—Lord Stark’s solar. And Raynald did not feel like speaking with his warder this afternoon.

 

“He talks!” countered Robb.

 

“Never heard him. If I don’t hear it, it doesn’t happen!” proclaimed Theon.

 

At this Den stood up and Raynald expected the scrawny two namedays younger boy to tackle them in response, punch, kick, scream even—as he sometimes did wordlessly. Instead Den Snow got up and ran away, further into the godswood, and there of course was only one response to that, but just as Theon and Raynald prepared to give chase Jon and Robb swung down from their branch and landed in front of them.

 

“Oh get out of the way!” grumbled Theon who with a shove pushed Jon Snow to the ground. This of course left Raynald to have to deal with a Robb who tackled him first, which was more annoying than effective at stopping him. Within a few moves, Raynald had peeled off the younger and smaller lordling and was giving chase to Theon and Jon who ran in the direction which Den had—straight towards the weirwood tree at the heart of the godswood. When they reached the weirwood, sudden shock and confusion reigned as Theon seemed to have lost Den’s trail. From atop in the weirwood’s branches perched a raven which cawed out with their arrival.

 

“He’s gone!” proclaimed Theon with disbelief, while Robb broke out in laughter upon realizing what had happened.

 

“He can’t have!” protested Raynald.

 

“The old gods must be hiding him,” offered Jon as Robb’s laughs died down.

 

“Psha! I bet they can no such thing! He’s just hiding behind a tree is all!” insisted Theon as he began looking behind trees. This time Raynald says nothing, feeling in his bones that if the old gods wanted to they could make them all disappear. Though, he helps in the search with Theon looking in the tree tops.

 

“They can too!” insisted Robb as their quick search continued.

 

When Raynald rounded about to the front end of the weirwood, the raven in the tree cawed just as he noticed that some of the small greyish-white seeds had fallen once again into the carved gaping sappy mouth of the weirwood’s face. At the sight of them Raynald lost all thoughts of continuing to search for Den. Instead he began to wonder what it might be like to taste one. The Old Wolf had urged Lord Stark to eat some hadn’t he?

 

“Have you found him?” asked Theon as he too rounded around the weirwood to look at what Raynald was staring at.

 

“That’s not—” And just then a raven in the tree above them cawed. And Theon too stared at the seeds, finally continuing with, “hey, aren’t they what that weird old guy gave to Lord Stark?”

 

Raynald nodded his head and entranced by the seeds, Raynald reached into the mouth and pulled out a small handful of seeds to get an even closer look at them. Then suddenly a small hand forced its way into Raynald’s and brushed the seeds out of his grasp and onto the ground.

 

“We were looking at that!” protested Theon

 

“My father said we weren’t to touch them,” declared Robb, wiping his hands of the goo on his breeches. Jon stood not far behind him more observing than truly interacting at this point—and giving weird looks up into the weirwood tree at odd moments.

 

And Theon, ever the one to be contrary plucked up a few of the spilled seeds and held him as high as he could while taunting “Ooo! I’m touching one, what’s Robb going to do!”

 

“Put it down! Or I’ll tell my father!” insisted Robb as he jumped to knock the seeds out of Theon’s hand, but he was just too short to do so.

 

“Hear that Raynald, he’ll tell Lord Stark!” mocked Theon, and Raynald laughed along half-heartedly as he worried what would happen if Lord Stark did find out.

 

“Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do… get rid of the seeds,” said Theon and Robb stopped jumping in confusion just long enough for Theon to bring down his hand, the seeds firmly grasped in them, position his arm as if he were about to throw something and then suddenly a the last moment he brought his hand to his mouth and seemed to eat the seeds that had been inside of his grasp.

 

Robb and Jon’s shock at seeing that last action was interesting to say the least, from Raynald’s point of view. Robb’s eyes bulged out like Raynald had never seen before, with his mouth hanging slightly open.

 

“You ate them…” stated Robb in amazement.

 

“Can’t say I touched them if you can’t find what I touched!” proclaimed

 

“What’s it taste like?” asked Raynald

 

“Powdery but sweet, not too bad actually… are there any more?” asked Theon moving towards the mouth of the tree, but Raynald beat him to it and grabbed a few for himself before Theon could take them all. And quite quickly, Raynald ate a few seeds. The sap was sticky and was just syrupy enough that it was impossible to chew, and just solid enough that he had to chew, but once he got through the sweet sticky sap he bit into a few of the seeds and after penetrating their tough outer shell he felt a powder begin to coat the inside of his mouth. It tingled oddly inside in a weird kind of way that Raynald rather liked.

 

“Do they really taste good?” asked Robb, taking a step closer to the mouth of the weirwood.

 

Theon nodded his head and split some of his with Robb, who took the small handful and walked over to where Jon stood apart

 

“Together?” asked Robb as Raynald reached in for the last of the seeds that had fallen into the tree’s carved mouth.

 

“But father said—” began Jon.  
  
“They’re fine… don’t you want to try it?” asked Robb’s voice, and Raynald turned as he chewed on his next batch of seeds, reveling in the tingling sensation in his mouth, to see Robb splitting his share of sees with his half-brother and then eating them himself, and not after too much deliberation, Jon did as much himself.

 

Theon then began licking his hands to get all the sap off while Raynald decided to wash his in the black pool by the weirwood tree. Soon Robb was licking his fingers and Jon had joined Raynald in using the pool for his hands. Raynald regretted there weren’t more seeds in easy reach—the rest were likely up amongst the branches and had yet to have fallen. Just then they heard a voice cry from the entrance of the godswood, which Raynald recognized immediately to be his sister.

 

“Robb… Jon… Raynald… Theon! Lady Stark says its time for the mid-day meal!” called out Jeyne.

 

“We should go,” said Jon immediately, in his ever so serious tone.

 

“I’m kinda not hungry now…” said Robb.

 

“Me neither, but we should still go,” added Raynald.

 

Raynald stood to go but as he did he heard a groan from Theon.

 

“Is something wrong?” asked Raynald calmly, with a slight worried tone.

 

“Don’t shout! And how did it get so bright out here?” complained Theon as he at once tried to cover his ears and block his eyes. Raynald approached Theon, who by the point Raynald had finished climbing over the large root to get to him, had fallen to his knees and his moans had begun to grow louder. And just as Raynald arrived Theon collapsed to the ground.

 

“Theon!” cried out Raynald as he tried shaking Theon, but he did not respond. Raynald felt his heart pounding almost immediately.

 

Raynald heard Jon stammer, “I’ll get h—help!” followed by the quiet sound of footfalls on the mossy earth of the godswood departing towards the gate.

 

Just as he did so Theon suddenly jerked and shouted “Got ya!” causing Raynald to fly back in fright at once.

 

“That wasn’t funny, Theon!” protested Robb as he finished climbing over the root and joined Theon and Raynald on its other side.

 

“No, but it was a good trick, wasn’t it?” asked Theon with a lot of pride. Raynald just stared at Theon for a moment and then broke down into laughter.

 

“See, Raynald gets it,” said Theon simply, with a grin of his own, while Robb scowled at them both.

 

But it soon became quite tiring to continue laughing, in fact Raynald felt quite sleepy all of a sudden—and looking at Theon he wasn’t looking too wide awake either.

 

And the next moment Raynald, Theon, Robb and even Jon at the edge of the gates had all fallen asleep, leaving a worried Den in the weirwood tree with a raven above them.


	35. Elia II

**ELIA**  
  
Rhaenys’ future husband when he was presented before the court was made quite a show of by the King. Having been born at Storm’s End, at Robert’s insistence, young Prince Durran was the pride of his father’s eyes and his mother was lavished with a fine boar’s head with quite large tusks that curled around in a curlicue. While the Queen had been in labor, Robert had hunted from the Kingswood. To her obvious discomfort the Queen had been dragged at eight moons heavy to Robert’s ancestral seat, insisting that the first Baratheon prince should be born where the old Storm Kings of old had all been born in King Durran’s castle. The event, Elia had noticed was obviously not appreciated by Lord Stannis, but considering him and his new wife had made plans to tour the Stormlands and Summerhall to supervise the beginning of its reconstruction, the matter was “settled”—though all the court was abuzz with Lord Stannis’ displeasure at being chased out of his own castle.  
  
As such, young Prince Durran was named for the ancient ancestor from whom the Baratheons claimed lineage from amongst First Men. Four moons had passed from the Prince’s birth before he was considered well enough to travel with his mother to the capital to be presented to a small but still quite public court.  
  
Robert held his first son in his arms and went around the entire assembled lords and ladies showing off the babe with wisps of Baratheon black hair and the grey eyes of First Men like the Starks. Queen Lyanna, sat in her throne, bedazzled in fine cloth of silver and gold with direwolves and stags running across her dresses quite ostentatiously—she looked quite miserable in it, if Elia was any judge, constantly fidgeting in it, but wearing it nonetheless. Elia always recalled the young Queen preferring simpler clothes and cloth. Nearby the Queen Lyanna stood the three ladies in waiting she had acquired thus far. She had left with two—one from the Riverlands and one from the Vale, and had since acquired a woman of the Stormlands. The Vale noblewoman was barely old enough to be considered a woman grown, in Elia’s opinion, but of the three went about her duties with the most fervor and in Elia’s opinion was thus far the favorite of the Queen’s. Elia would have to consider her brother’s bannermen to see who among Dorne would be ideal… mayhaps Ser Santagar’s sister? Aye, she was near of age with the Queen. Then there were the Narrow Sea houses to consider, who seemed to have a lack of ladies in general.  
  
 _How ironic that Rhaenys is their Lady Paramount…_  
  
When Prince Durran was presented to the Queen Dowager, herself, and Rhaenys, the infant was drifting lazily to sleep. After being held and fawned over quite publicly by Rhaella and herself—she had to admit the babe was quite endearing in his own pale and chubby way—King Robert then knelt on one knee so he was much closer to Rhaenys’ own height and presented the babe in his arms to her saying with much endearment, “Lady Rhaenys, your future husband, Prince Durran.”  
  
Rhaenys was only five and already quite the lady in her manners. Rhaella had seen to it that Rhaenys was ever the ideal child to mind and in Elia’s opinion was apt to spoil her. Why the amount of orange cakes she ate alone were cause for concern in Elia’s opinion, but she knew Rhaella would soon be spoiling her daughters too much to give as much attention to her granddaughter, so Elia allowed the indulgences for the nonce.  
  
Rhaenys curtseyed quite gracefully in her fine red, black, and orange silken dress—her fine long brown hair done up and hidden underneath a cap. She gave the King a sweet smile as she did so, and then looked upon her destined husband to be with the curious eyes of the child she was.  
  
Ever the soul of politeness, Rhaenys turned her eyes to the King and said, “I thank you, your grace. If I may…”  
  
“Yes?” inquired the King good naturedly.  
  
“H—he’s quite small, your grace.”  
  
Elia froze for a moment before the Stag King burst out laughing merrily then saying, “Aye, that he is, but in a few years’ time he’ll catch up to you, my sweet little lady. He’ll catch up and then be taller still!”  
  
Rhaenys nodded and agreed, “Of course, your grace.”  
  
Later that evening, there was the usual difficulty of taking a bath. Rhaenys was deathly afraid of water she could not stand in, and Elia ended up having to carry her daughter into the bath with her clinging to her neck, as usual. As she lathered Rhaenys’ hair and body, Elia wondered when this childish fear of deep water would end. After the bath was finished they dressed in their silken shifts and Elia tucked her daughter in for bed. She cooed as she ran her fingers through her sleepy daughter’s hair, “You did very well at court, my little dragon.”  
  
“Did I please you and grandmamma today?” asked Rhaenys with a lot of concern on her face. She was the sweetest thing in the world. When Elia had been her age, she’d been notoriously wicked with Oberyn, likely causing her mother’s hair to go grey earlier than it would have otherwise. But Rhaenys… Rhaenys was her sweet little dragon.  
  
“Aye that you did. You will be a fine queen one day. And what do you really think of your little prince?” asked Elia with a smirk.  
  
“He’s small,” echoed Rhaenys with a yawn, her eyes closing as her little mouth stretched wider than one would imagine it could.  
  
“Oh, I see an afternoon of dancing lessons has tired you out, mayhaps we’ll speak again on the morrow, hmm?” suggested Elia.  
  
“Aye, mamma…” mumbled her daughter.  
  
Elia kissed Rhaenys’ forehead and then departed her daughter’s chambers with a lit candle. She passed the guards and then made her way to her brother’s compartments, as she was accustomed to doing every now and then, but she came this night unannounced based solely on what she had heard. He had apparently heard more news from Pentos her handmaiden had whispered to her, and Elia was determined to find out what it was.  
  
She found Oberyn and a paid whore in the midst of pleasuring the still recovering Ellaria Sand, who had given birth to Oberyn’s second son. Her newest nephew had been named in honor of their uncle Lewyn. Oberyn had fawned all over his infant second son—almost as badly as the King had in the court this morning. What was it about men and their sons? Aye it preserved the family name and line, but there was something odd that clicked in the head of men when they held a son in their arms versus when they held a daughter. Even Oberyn was not immune to this reaction. But then again, Lewyn was the first child he’d been there to witness the birth of.  
  
The other Sand Snakes were taken aback at the addition of two brothers to their sisterhood—Obara thus far being the most open to finally having a sparring partner in Oberyn’s eldest son who was named for him, but went by the name of Obi. Tyene and Nym were a bit suspicious of this new Pentoshi brother of theirs and the close relationship he had with a girl a few years his elder by the name of Lysenia. Nym was eventually won over, but Tyene held out as a kind of quiet protest, though Elia could see she was plotting something in that mind of hers. Sarella did not recall a time before Obi had arrived, and besides she spent most of her time playing with little Mya Stone and occasionally Robb and Bella Rivers, the King’s three bastard children.  
  
There had been a rumor when the two Rivers Stags had been brought before the court that the Queen would leave, and when she had gone to Storm’s End it had been rumored that the King and Queen had been on strained terms with one another, enough so that at first people suspected the Queen of secretly escaping North to her brother’s seat at Winterfell. The six moons apart though had apparently eased whatever difficulties in their relationship had arisen from the Rivers Stags, who were permitted to stay in the Red Keep in quarters far from the Queen’s. Though Elia noticed that of the three bastard children, Lyanna only concerned herself with Mya Stone since her return.  
  
“Ahh, Elia… do want us to share this girl?” asked Oberyn as he finished biting Ellaria’s neck while kneading her back.  
  
“That is fine, Oberyn, but I do wish to speak with you.”  
  
“Can’t it wait for morning?” asked Ellaria with a groan.  
  
Elia nearly frowned at hearing that, but she kept her poise for the moment.  
  
“I need to speak with you now,” urged Elia a little too harshly she felt in retrospect.  
  
“Of course, you’d choose now…” complained Oberyn as the threesome continued their escapades. She gave them a few moments to finish up, but when a few moments felt like it had turned into several minutes, she could not wait any longer.  
  
“Oberyn,” she said, reminding him of her presence.  
  
Her little brother heaved a great sigh before japing, “Aye, you always did know how to spoil things…”  
  
“We’ll leave, lover… come to my chambers when you’re through…” mentioned Ellaria in a manner most sultry before giving him a long deep kiss and then wrapping a robe around herself and another around the whore, dragged the girl out of the chambers. Oberyn did not move to cover himself; they both were quite comfortable with their bodies having swum naked together since childhood in the Water Gardens. Elia noticed with satisfaction that the women had left before finishing him off.  
  
The moment the two women were gone, he hissed with obvious discontentment, “What is it, _dearest_ sister.”  
  
“Oh don’t be fussy with me little brother. I heard you received a woman from Pentos this evening,” she pressed her point further, hoping to keep his mind in his upper head at the very least. Though he did seem to idly stroke himself—though only at a rate with which to preserve his current state and not give himself satisfaction she surmised. He smirked when she noticed what he was doing, and Elia rolled her eyes at his childish insistence at maintaining his own pleasures.  
  
“News travels fast in the Red Keep. Who told you, your handmaiden?” he asked, still smirking.  
  
 _Seven Hells I should wipe that cocky grin off his face._  
  
“Aye, and what did this woman have to say?” urged Elia once again.  
.  
“Just as I thought!” he said with a noisy slap for emphasis.  
  
 _I can’t believe he’s playing this little game…_  
  
“And what did you think?” asked Elia, hating herself for playing into Oberyn’s twisted game of chicken.  
  
“Expect a new handmaiden on the morrow,” he said with an exaggerated moan as he began to quicken his pace.  
  
“Pity… it took so long to break this last one in,” commented Elia drolly, crossing her arms to tell him she wasn’t going anywhere until he spilled the beans on what he knew on Pentos.  
  
“Would you prefer a boy instead? They’re as easy as dogs to train—loyal too—and gods know you could use a new lover… though if you’re against breaking one in, I would not advise going for the… younger ones… tell me, what do your tastes incline to now?” asked Oberyn smugly.  
  
“I want to hear this news from Pentos,” insisted Elia, taking a step closer, daring him to continue further.  
  
“Persistent this evening, aren’t you?” Oberyn asked, picking up his speed.  
  
“And you’re dodging the question!”  
  
“That is my position, is it not? To know things without telling everything I know? Pray correct me if I somehow got the wrong impression—this new King is apt to decree night is day and day is night,” commented Oberyn with a sour smirk.  
  
“Oh, stop thinking with your cock for a moment and consider if you would like to see Rhaenys and I dead in our beds because of your flippan—” but before she could finish Oberyn had suddenly stood and grabbed one of her wrists—his eyes alight with a rage that Elia had rarely seen in him before, but she knew to be the viper within him… awakened and ready to strike.  
  
He spoke quite quietly and seriously, “Don’t even jape of such things, Elia… your safety is paramount to me… even before my own.”  
  
For a moment Elia forgot that he did not wear a stitch of clothing, because all she could see was her little brother’s eyes. And gods for the first time in her life she actually feared him.  
  
“Then why won’t you tell me?” asked Elia, recovering herself.  
  
And just like that the fearful moment had passed. The fire in his eyes faded as he lowered them for just a moment before looking upon once again and with a small smile—not a smirk—he said, “Sit down, you look tense.”  
  
“Oberyn—” she began.  
  
“Sit down and let me work out those knots in your shoulder,” he commanded determinedly as he returned to the bed, crawling into the center and indicating for her to sit on the edge.  
  
For once it was Elia’s turn to be sarcastic, “I’m not sitting down while you’re wielding your spear.”  
  
Oberyn gave a little laugh, then reached back to the head of the bed and grabbed a pillow. He then put it in front of his groin, and then raised his eyebrows. Sighing Elia complied and sat on the very edge of the bed, trying to keep as much distance from the pillow as possible. To her discomfort she felt the pillow press against her as Oberyn pulled her closer to him and began to work at her shoulders.  
  
His hands were much stronger, but still quite tender to the touch, compared to the last time they had massaged each other’s backs before she had left for King’s Landing. It was odd, but in all this time they had not picked up the practice they had had as children. Now that it was being renewed with Oberyn displaying a wealth of knew techniques that he had not known since before his exile to Essos.  
  
She soon forgot about the offending pillow, or he had gone as soft as it, either was quite likely, and after a few moments of enjoying the blissful rhythmic touch of his hands upon her shoulders and upper back she felt his hot breath upon at her ear.  
  
He then whispered, “The little birds are twittering once again in the keep. If your handmaiden knew of my visitor, then it is likely that they are listening now.”  
  
“What of Pentos?” she asked in a quiet whisper hidden in a moan of enjoyment. Two could play this game.  
  
“The… woman I met with this afternoon brought with her Oswell Whent’s son and heir.”  
  
“Oswell Whent has a son?!” exclaimed Elia in a louder whisper.  
  
“Shhh, aye, apparently before he disappeared he took some advice I gave him… though the fool was honor bound enough to marry the wench,” answered Oberyn in his hushed soothing tones.  
  
“Oswell was your agent in Pentos, wasn’t he? The one who disappeared. And he… by the warrior’s sword… may the mother have mercy on his soul…” murmured Elia in utter shock.  
  
 _If he can be killed by Varys… then whoever we send into the spider’s web will surely die…_  
  
”And here I thought the news of the betrothal between Margarery Tyrell and Renly Baratheon was the worst news this day for you,” clucked Oberyn. The youngest Baratheon brother was to secure the alliance his elder brother had passed on in marrying the Vale woman over Jana Tyrell. The two were hardly out of the nursery and yet they were already engaged.  
  
She answered his jape with her own serious reply “Ser—Master Oswell does not—did not deserve that kind of death…” she mentioned as Oberyn moved to her lower back, causing Elia to arch her back in response.  
  
Oberyn grimly added, “Aye but it’s the one he got anyway… just like your friend the High Septon. The Stranger it seems has a cruel sense of humor these days when it comes to bringing people to their death…”  
  
“The High Septon wasn’t my friend,” corrected Elia.  
  
“Wasn’t he? I did not take you for a sympathizer to this Faith of One, my sweet sister. Tell me, is this new man—Hesse is his name I believe—hiding in your bed chambers?” japed Oberyn quietly.  
  
“Others take you!” scolded Elia.  
  
  
“The man has to be hiding somewhere in King’s Landing they say, for reports of him appearing at different parts of the city have the Goldcloaks running around madly, and the new High Septon, this High Bones fellow is apt to have all heretics squashed they say and keeps them rushing about. And I hear there’s another man in the Reach and yet another in the Westerlands…”  
  
“I hear the reports the same as you—probably more than you considering Bonifer will not speak of anything else. Pray speak on some other subject than religion. I tire of hearing of heretics and this Faith of One. Tell me more of Pentos—what else did this woman have to say?” commented Elia with a disheartened sigh.  
  
“You tire of hearing of this Faith of One?” he gave a little laugh and his fingers fumbled slightly for a moment before he continued, “All day I do nothing but read letters and hear whispers and rumors of what is occurring in Essos. Since Oswell’s died I am grasping at straws to figure out what is occurring there, and now I must wonder if the men I send to bring me more will return. And then there is Euron Greyjoy and his pirate allies who hide in the Stepstones only the Seven know where. And then there are the matters at home to consider, what with the abominable actions Lord Stafford allows to occur in the Westerlands when he thinks no one is looking. To tell the simple truth, I grow weary of this position as much as you do of hearing of this Faith of One…”  
  
“The Red Viper of Dorne, admits defeat?!” questioned Elia.  
  
“Nay, never defeat… but I do tire of it all the same as there is little pleasure in achieving victories that if you do well in, no one will ever take notice of…” he grumbled  
  
And they agreed, for the moment not to speak on anything as he finished the massage.  
  
“Now that I’ve done you, ‘tis only fair,” he said sliding up alongside of her at the edge of the bed.  
  
“Gods, sometimes you make me doubt you’ve grown past the boy I left at Sunspear…” she said, as she scooted back and then moved to reciprocate the massage.  
  
Before she began, he turned and grasped her hand, meeting her eyes with a different kind of intensity than before. One which looked very much like the boy she had left.  
  
“Never doubt that that is not true. We may grow older, but that must _always_ remain true,” he said intensely in a near pleading tone. And Elia understood, replying with a smile. She always understood.


	36. Jason

**JASON**

 

It was a beautiful day for a funeral. The sun hung low in the sky over Ironman’s Bay, not yet becoming the amber hue of sunset, but it was far darker in color than it had been earlier in the day. There was hardly a cloud in the sky and a nice westerly breeze flew from behind him. Jason watched as his grandmother’s boat, burning from his arrow, sailed off to the edge of the large cove which enclosed Seagard and then out into the open waters of the bay westward. His grandmother had been an old woman, though she had been at least eleven years younger than the Absent Lord Walder Frey in comparison, but having lived to see her sixth and sixty nameday was quite an accomplish itself compared to most women who died in birthing beds. But Lady Polina Mallister had delivered his father Edrek and his uncle Denys and lived a healthy and hale life besides. These last four and ten years though, living without his grandfather had been the hardest on her—and towards the end Jason had begun to worry that she was beginning to lose her mind as the servants and members of the family often walked in on her speaking to an empty room as though his grandfather Joseth were still present within.

 

_By the Seven I hope she has peace at last…_

 

Jason watched until the boat disappeared, like he had when his father had died five years earlier, and then waded back in to shore where most of his kin were gathered. His second cousin through his grandmother, the current Lord Terrick, Lord Ulrek, met him after he had come out of the surf and embraced him like a brother—though they had hardly known one another growing up. The hug was brief but not unwelcome, and Jason felt that it was likely to be the last bit of family intimacy shared between them for the rest of their lives, after all, the same had been true of the Whents when Jason’s Great Aunt Mynerva had died. Funerals had an odd way of reuniting old and decaying family ties for one last reminder of kinship like that.

 

Soon the cousins separated to rejoin their respective families higher up on the beach. The eldest Mallister present, his uncle, Denys had somehow wrangled an agreement with Lord Commander Quargyle of the Night’s Watch to attend the funeral. Before today Jason had could hardly remember his uncle, considering he had left at the age of four and twenty to join the Night’s Watch. What little Jason did recall did not match this hardened and solemn man he saw before him—his beard and hair as white as the snows of the North. The young man who Jason recalled had been easy to laugh and jape—the man he had become looked as if he might freeze a man with his look. After Uncle Denys, the next eldest Mallister present was Jason’s mother, who was dressed in her finest black dress, complete with a silken veil of the same color. His mother had become her goodmother’s constant companion these last few years, joining together as fellow widows of House Mallister, and looking after her, though they got along as well as a cat and a dog.

 

“The Stranger has taken her, and may the Mother be merciful,” commented his mother grimly.

 

“Aye, they have mother, and gods willing she be in the Seven Heavens if the Father be just,” added Jason.

 

His mother grimaced at his addendum and she slowed her steps to speak with Denys as they walked up off of the beach to where the rest of the family stood on a slight rise, providing a good view of the bay.

 

It was then that Mynerva, his sweet six nameday old daughter with hair as brown as his rushed up to him and pleaded to be held, which he obliged. Mynerva had been the closest to his grandmother, and she had indulged her most of all her great-grandchildren. Mynerva cuddled up close to him, reaching her arms about his neck and laying her head on his shoulder. Jeffory, his youngest son stood clutching to Imogen’s skirts still, the boy wouldn’t likely recall his great-grandmother Polina or the orange cakes she was apt to feed him as treats. Patrek, who had returned from his squiring at Riverrun for the funeral stood by straight and tall as his nine namedays would let him by his mother’s side, as if doing so might be his way of easing her burdens with the fussy Jeffory—though Jason could see in his amber eyes, that all his son wanted was to do as Jeffory did, but likely he felt was unbecoming of a boy his age. Upon rejoining his wife and sons, Jason ruffled Patrek’s hair endearingly, earning him an annoyed but appreciative glance from the boy.

 

“Father…” complained Patrek.

 

“What has Ser Brynden done with my boy to give me such a little man?” japed Jason bittersweetly.

 

Imogen kissed his cheek chastely in a comforting manner before receiving him. He could tell by how stiff she held herself that she had news to speak with him on, but to her credit she held back the information until they and their guard returned from the private beach to the western gatehouse of the castle. As they entered the courtyard she broke the grave but calming silence which had accompanied them.

 

“While you were in the waters, Fagon came with a message. Apparently Sawane Botley seeks an audience with you,” repeated Imogen distastefully.

 

“Did you tell Fagon to tell him I was busy seeing my grandmother off to sea?” asked Jason incredulously.

 

“He said that Sawane mentioned it was urgent—that it couldn’t wait,” continued Imogen.

 

“I bet it’s the stone sellers are giving him problems again,” commented Jason gruffly, and Jason put Mynerva down, his arms tired from carrying her all this way.

 

The relationship between House Mallister and House Botley had always been friendly. Of all the Ironborn the Botleys were the keenest on trading rather than raiding, being that they had been lords of Lordsport ever since the rise of House Greyjoy to the Seastone Chair almost three centuries ago. While Seagard had been built not too long after the Andals had settled the Riverlands to keep the Ironborn raiders off their shores, the Botleys had been the one exception. Trade between Lordsport and Seagard during the years of peace between Ironborn and the rest of the mainland was usually the most assured and over a century ago had been secured through the marriage of Gysella Botley to Jason’s namesake. As such Sawane was as much his cousin as he was a friend, distant though the relationship was. Thus, when Sawane had landed at Seagard after the latest rebellion had ended—stripped of land and title as other lords of Pyke, Great Wyk, and Saltcliffe had been for resisting the King’s forces—Jason had accepted him, his family, and his sail to Seagard. Sawane was a proud man—refusing to beg or accept charity—so Jason employed his sail and made sure to find him steady work to keep him and his large brood of sons fed. They might have only been fifth cousins, but kin was still kin in Jason’s books.

 

Lately Sawane had been employed by Jason in the small fortune he was making transporting stone from the North and the Vale to Lannisport. With the devastation of Lannisport, a good deal of Riverlands and Vale merchants and traders now looked to Seagard as the closest center of trade, and the southern portions of the North saw Seagard as their closest western port of trade since Lord Rickard betrothed his heir to Lord Hoster’s daughter. Seagard had thus grown tremendously these last few years—and with the share in revenues from the tolls of the Twins, Jason hoped to build fortifications and better defenses to protect Seagard from future Ironborn assault—and that was where accepting cousin Sawane came in most handy. For who better to help plan defenses against Ironborn, than an Ironborn himself? Jason had not yet broached the subject with Sawane, seeing as he wanted to judge what the average flow of the toll share from the Twins would be from year to year, giving it five years to figure out a rough estimate—though Sawane was sure that the wilily old weasel was doing quite well with the growth in traffic to Seagard.

 

The stone sellers though, knowing their trade was so valued had begun to renegotiate terms with each ship they employed, increasing prices and profit for themselves, while keeping the share the sailors received at a low rate. Jason loathed dealing with such matters, but as his father had been apt to say, being the lord of merchants, one must inevitably come to think like one, lest they cheat you out of your own coin. It wasn’t exactly what Jason liked to think on the most, but it was no different than learning and playing the part of a servant at Lord Hoster’s request, and in some situations it proved useful.

 

Jason turned to his eldest son and heir “Patrek, come with me. You’ll need to learn these matters one day; best take advantage of it now before you return to Riverrun.”

 

“Aye Father,” answered Patrek, who followed after him dutifully, like a squire would. How unlike the wild little boy he’d sent to Ser Brynden’s service. And as they made their way to his solar, Jason prompted Patrek to speak once again on , he liked to imagine his son and his new friends and fellow lordlings training and playing those innocent childish pranks he described. Such a pity that such a world could never last for forever. A figure often appearing in these stories was that of Asha Greyjoy, the sister of the current boy lord of the Iron Isles. The way Patrek spoke of her Jason could tell he admired the girl for her daring and cunning in planning over half of the pranks that were pulled.

 

_If he were to marry Asha that would be one way to ensure the Iron Isles wouldn’t attack Seagard in the future, with us being kin… and the two are of age with each other. I’ll have to speak with Hoster about a betrothal when they’re a bit older…_

 

They then arrived in his solar, where Sawane and his son had waited his arrival.

 

“Gods, Jason, you look terrible!” commented Sawane as he stood.

 

“I just finished sending my grandmother out to sea,” replied Jason in a slightly perturbed manner to make his point.

 

Sawane’s eyes widened and he solemnly replied, “Forgive me… I hadn’t heard the news…”

 

“What is this most urgent matter? Is it the stone sellers again?” asked Jason, trying to put on a better face.

 

“Nay… but I can return another—” began Sawane as he reached down to the table he had been seated at before Jason and Patrek had entered in order to roll up a map of his.

 

“You’re here now, just speak on the matter and be done with it,” urged Jason as he took his seat at the head of the table. Patrek silently took the seat to his right and obediently sat there to listen.

 

Sawane hesitated for a moment before unfurling the map once again and retaking his seat.

 

Sawane nudged his son with his name, “Harren,” and the boy, who had been lost in his thoughts before this nodded stood and pulled out a satchel he had brought from next to his chair. The lad was two and ten and tall for his age, and his dark messy hair was the same shade as Sawane’s. He then pulled out a large chunk of what appeared to be driftwood and walked around the table to give it to Jason.

 

The large chunk of driftwood that Harren handed him was obviously dried out but it was covered in apparent strange markings. Jason held the piece of wood in his hands and examined it. The wood was as hard as Ironwood but with a color more like that of a weirwood. If it weren’t for its hardness, Jason might have confused it for a piece of weirwood. And on one particular side was carved strange markings which seemed oddly familiar and yet wholly alien to Jason.

 

_They’re almost like the runes on Lord Yohn’s bronze armor… almost, but not quite…_

 

Most noticeable though was the marking of what appeared to be a dog’s head.

 

“Harren, show Lord Jason what you showed me,” urged Sawane, and the boy returned and pointed to a grain in the wood. Sawane added as his boy did so, “Look right in between the grain, yes… right there.”

 

Patrek, for all his newfound obedience, still maintained the curiosity of any boy and leaned in to get a good look himself. In between the grain of the wood was a small crack in which it appeared some sap had hardened, but what was most extraordinary about this was its color.

 

“The sap’s blue!” exclaimed Patrek.

 

“Are those truly flecks of sap?” questioned Jason with some amazement.

 

By this point Harren had returned to Sawane’s side. Sawane nodded and said, “Aye; as far as I can tell they’re hardened and preserved for us to see. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen here in Westeros.”

 

“And where did you find this piece of wood?” asked Jason as he continued to examine the wood from all sides, it taking on a whole new significance.

 

Sawane told his tale warmly, “I was returning from Lannisport when the winds blew me off course far out into the Sunset Sea—farther out than I’d ever gone before. For a while I had thought it likely that the Storm God himself had sent me to rot… and it was there that I found this piece of wood floating in the ocean in an eastwards moving current that returned me to Westeros. Now if this wood was traveling on that current, then it must have come from further west than I did… which means that there must be a land to the west of Westeros, or at least more islands further west than my Ironborn kin have ever sailed.”

 

“This is intriguing, especially these markings…” commented Jason.

 

“Master Harys Arryn thought they might be similar—” began Sawane.

 

“You showed this to Harys Arryn?” interjected Jason before he could finish. Jason recalled the merchant from a cadet branch of the Gulltown Arryns. He had come to Seagard to benefit on increased trade with Oldtown since the rise in piracy made sailing through the Narrow Sea and Stepstones far less than reliable. Jason had not met with him personally yet, but the man was rumored to be on the outs with the head of his branch of the family, and apparently disliking how they were now cozying up with the Arryns of the Eyrie.

 

Sawane almost blushed as he continued, “To tell the truth when I first returned to Seagard I thought it a rare and precious find, but nothing more than something to tell a tale about over by a fire. Harys said the markings reminded him of several he had seen on the pottery from the lands beyond the Jade Sea that he’d acquired. He saw the opportunity and opened my eyes to it as well…”

 

“Opportunity?” asked Jason.

 

“Why if this wood comes from the west then that means there must be more ways than to sail to the Jade Sea than through the Jade Gates… which means—” began Sawane.

 

“—that the merchants of Seagard could profit from the spice trade with the lands beyond the Jade Sea while avoiding those tariffs at the Jade Gates...” finished Jason, immediately seeing the implications.

 

“And yourself could benefit from this as well, with a share in the proceeds, if you would be able to help provide me more ships than my own, and vittles for the passage,” dangled Sawane.

 

“By what passage would you take? Directly west?” asked Jason with interest, putting down the piece of wood for the moment on the table and turning his attention to the map on the table.

 

“I would go a more northerly route, where the longitudes are closer together and the distance to travel would be shorter and therefore less costly,” indicated Sawane as he motioned on the map hugging the western coast of Westeros and then after reaching the Stony shore heading west from there.

 

“Do you have the estimates of the supplies you would need?” asked Jason, and Sawane handed him the document and nearly balked at the tremendous cost—far more than what he could afford. He sighed before continuing, “I can assist you in your plans, but I am afraid I am merely another partner… the only man rich enough in the Kingdom to supply an expedition of this cost is the King himself.”

 

“The same King who stripped me of my lands and titles… this is who you would ask me to speak to?” growled Sawane.

 

Jason sighed, “You could see his Master of Coin with a formal petition. One need not see King Robert himself to get his gold, but if it were indeed to come down to that, you should still steel yourself for such an audience. And besides, there’s one thing that getting the royal funding will give you.”

  
“And what’s that?” asked Sawane.

 

“A patent letter. I imagine that Master Harys Arryn did not tell you of that, now did he?” asked Jason.

 

“No, he did not,” said the lord turned sell sail merchant.

 

Jason explained further, “With a patent any trade that would ensue between these lands beyond the Jade Sea could be limited to Seagard and a trading license would have to be purchased from the holders of the patent which would include yourself as the discoverer of this trade route, Harys Arryn if he provides some funds, myself for my ships, and… well, I would suggest putting our sons’ names on the patent so that they would have a say in this after we are dead.”

 

Jason eyed both Harren and Patrek who had each been losing interest until this moment. If such a trade route were feasible it would give their boys a future at the very least, and judging by how appreciative Sawane was looking at Jason, he knew that he had hit upon the right mark.


	37. Stannis II

**STANNIS**

 

While Robert had insisted on occupying Storm’s End for the duration of the Queen’s confinement, Stannis had decided it was time to visit Summerhall personally to see how efforts to clear the ruins were underway. He brought Lorra along as she had proven useful in noting where accounts and figures were slack or could be improved upon in her short time as Lady of Storm’s End. They brought Renly along as well, since Lorra had grown quite attached to his younger brother and he had at long last grown to the age of good reason, and it would be good prerogative for the future Lord of Summerhall to see and inspect his future lands, Stannis reasoned. In truth, Stannis simply wanted to ensure that Robert kept his paws off their brother and Lorra was quite obliging to assist him in the matter. They planned on lodging in a nearby abandoned village that had been converted into a camp for the workers Stannis had hired to stay in. They stayed in the best house which remained standing, with a room for themselves and a separate one for Renly.

 

Summerhall was located at the top of the Boneway in the Dornish Marches that led down to Blackhaven, then across the border into Dorne at Wyl, and lastly ending at Yronwood at the edge of the deserts in Dorne. When Dorne had been a separate Kingdom it had made sense to build such a royal stronghold there. But to Stannis’ eyes he saw it now as a good buffer lordship against the forces of the Reach, which it was also near the border of. The former palace itself was located in quite a beautiful setting, or so Lorra admitted to him upon their arrival. Summerhall though was in such a ruin that planning it to be cleared away and rebuilt anew was simpler than anything else. The only part of the old Targaryen Royal Palace that Stannis planned on keeping was the small detached chapel that had escaped the destruction of the fire and a stone wall that had once belonged as part of the Great Hall that was largely still intact—oddly considering the Great Hall was from where the fire purportedly had started.

 

Upon their arrival the workers were finishing clearing out the last of the ruins which remained of the Great Hall. The first two days were spent showing Renly where the drawn out plans would become a reality, but by the end of the second day his brother had begun to grow anxious to take a swim in the nearby lake that Summerhall was built near the shores of. So on the third day Lorra agreed to take Renly along with a few guards to the lake for a short swim, while Stannis took the opportunity to speak with Harrion, the man he’d hired to lead the project. Harrion was a stout man with a well-built frame something glittering caught his eye as he looked down into the large earthen pit that had been the cellar beneath the Great Hall before the floor collapsed.

 

“Hold your shovels!” called out Stannis to the men below in the pit. He then pointed to the man standing near where he’d seen the glittering object in the reddish-brown earth. And then he saw it—something which appeared white and green in the earth shimmered. He told the man to dig more carefully, and soon he knew the man saw what he saw and he tossed away the shovel and began to dig with his hands, brushing away the debris turned dirt to reveal three glittering objects.

 

_Dragon’s eggs…_

 

Stannis almost jumped into the pit himself, feeling some sort of compulsion at the sight of them awaken in him as though it had long slumbered—a compulsion which he quickly, rationally, and sensibly put to one side. Instead commanding the man to hand the eggs to him, which he obliged most willingly complaining they were hot to the touch. And while Stannis found them to be rather warm, they weren’t as unbearable as the man had led him to believe.

 

Even now that Stannis had taken them back to his quarters, washed all the dirt off them he could hardly believe that they had survived the fire—but then part of his mind reasoned dragons were fire made flesh—why should they be damaged by it?

 

He was taken surprise when his eyes were covered and he felt someone “What has your eye taken a fancy to?” questioned Lorra in a playful voice she reserved solely for their bed chambers. Inside of them they had learned a new way of being with one another that was wholly unlike any other relationship he had experienced. Here was someone who he understood and was understood by without having to say everything, and that was such a blessing indeed.

 

When he turned around, the black egg with blue zigzags in his gloved hand became apparent to her.

 

“Is that?” she asked.

 

He nodded and then said, “For these three eggs the Targaryens suffered a great tragedy to their dynasty.”

 

“Your family as well…”

 

“Aye… father used to say that grandmother was never the same after Summerhall,” he admitted.

 

He then put away the eggs in a large trunk near the foot of their.

 

“Is something wrong?” asked Stannis when he took notice that Lorra still hovered.

 

“I—I have been meaning to tell you something for some time now…”

 

He closed the lid to the trunk, sat on it and stared at her and patted the other half of the trunk lid for her to sit down upon, which she complied to. With a further look he hoped to encourage her to speak further. But she remained with her eyes more interested in the scuffling of her feet. He was about to speak to prompt her to do so, but she surprised him by taking his right hand and quietly brought it closer to her. He was confused but allowed her the possession of his hand for the nonce, trusting her unlike he would anyone else. She then silently brought his hand to her her stomach and rested it there, saying nothing else, and then he knew. Gods he knew what she was trying to say. He looked at her. She avoided his eyes, but simply nodded once. Immediately he felt overwhelmed with joy and pleasure and he pulled Lorra closer to him, but as he did she trembled.

 

“What is the matter?” he asked

 

“My mother died giving birth to Elyssa…” confessed Lorra nervously.

 

“At the end of nine births… she survived more often than naught," he assured her.

 

“It only takes one time not to survive a birth,” she replied with a touch of cynicism.

 

He disentangled himself from her, though he did not let go of her hands once, and looking straight into her eyes he nearly ordered, “Nothing will happen, Lorra… you will deliver the… our… child and everything will go on as we want it to be.” He punctuated what he said with a decided nod.

 

_And that’s how it will be… it has to be that way and no other…_

 

_He was walking through the halls of Storm’s End at night. The halls were dark and the shadows from his torch flickered and seemed to move on their own to taunt him. But he had to find Lorra and Renly—he had to. There was danger all about them. He had to protect them. Outside it was night, but darker than he had ever seen it before. Out there the only light came from the flickering torches surrounding Mace Tyrell’s camp while all else beyond the walls of Storm’s End was black as night. He blinked and he found Renly was once again at the windows staring out as Mace Tyrell and his med gorged themselves ceaselessly._

 

_“When will it end?” asked Renly quietly._

_“Soon… now come away from the wind—” but before he could finish his sentences he heard a great clamor outside, he turned to look and see the gate to Storm’s End rattling—while all the archers and guards upon the wall lay dead. Stannis was frozen with fear as he watched the thick wooden doors rattle until at long last they were burst through by what appeared to be a war hammer. And then the gate burst open and a mad giant burst forth followed by a gigantic dog which tackled what few servants had run to bar the door only to arrive too late, and ripped their limbs in a most bloody manner from their bodies, close on their heels came vines which then overgrew the walls and up the tower they were standing in. When Stannis realized what was about to happen he reached to grab Renly, but it was too late. A vine had forced its way through the window and grabbed hold of his brother and dragged him out the window, and covered him completely in vines until Stannis could no longer hear his brother call out for him. Stannis reached through the window, trying to grab Renly’s outstretched hand, but it was all for naught._

_“Stannis…” called out Lorra’s voice and he turned to see her there fully pregnant and reaching out to him. He felt torn. Surely he could yet reach Renly, but Lorra was calling him… And then he heard her scream and he looked again to see blood pooling beneath her legs. Immediately he knew there was no choice and he got up to rush to Lorra, but as he did so she seemed to melt into blood… blood which then covered the floor and grew to flood the nook he was standing in. He was drowning in blood! And all the while he heard a baby’s scream in the far distance._

 

He awoke with a start and short of breath. When he was able to recognize that he was back in his quarters in the village near Summerhall, Stannis caught his breath as soon as he was able to and reasoned that it was all a nightmare… his own mind preying on itself. Lorra lay by his side, asleep. Carefully he moved his arm to touch her to be sure she was there, that she would not melt into a sea of blood and drown him… that she was carrying their child and that both were safe…

 

It was then that Stannis heard the creak of a floorboard in the room. Immediately he sat up and looked about the room—he should have kept a dagger in arm’s reach—what if some person had come to kill them?

 

However standing there by the chest in which he had stowed away the dragon’s eggs—its lid now widely open—Stannis saw his brother, Renly.

 

“Renly, what are you doing in here?” asked Stannis as he rose, grabbed a robe, quickly fastened it and went to his brother’s side.

 

“I… I don’t know…” said Renly quite dumbly.

 

Stannis gave his brother a hard look.

 

And Renly cracked under pressure, finally admitting, “A—all the men were talking about the eggs you found… and I wanted to see them.”

 

Stannis clenched his teeth before saying, “If you had asked me, I would have shown them to you in the morning,”

 

“I—I know, but I really wanted to see them…I had to see them… I couldn’t sleep without—” began his brother.

 

Stannis cut him off with, “Well you have seen them now… and it’s time for you to get back to your bed,” grunted Stannis as he grabbed his brother and picked him up—gods was he getting heavier—and returned to his room down . As he exited he found his guard had dozed off at the door. He would deal with him after he put Renly to bed. Renly for once did not fight him but simply accepted what must happen. In fact Renly did not speak the entire way until he was put to bed.

 

“I’m sorry,” said Renly as he settled his own blankets and Stannis rose to leave the chambers.

 

Stannis only looked at Renly.

 

“Saying you’re sorry doesn’t automatically make things better,” scolded Stannis.

 

“I know…” admitted Renly quietly.

 

And Stannis nodded and turned to leave.

 

“Do you think that they’ll hatch?” asked Renly.

 

“If our great-grandfather could not hatch them, I doubt anyone else can,” murmured Stannis before leaving his brother’s room.

 

After chewing out his guard he re-entered his room. Lorra was still asleep but had rolled onto her back now, both her hands at her stomach as she likely dreamed. He then crossed to the chest to close it, but caught himself once again staring in fascination at the dragons’ eggs. He felt drawn to them somehow, as though something in his blood proclaimed that he must protect them. Then, not knowing why he acted as such, he knelt and touched the eggs one by one for the first time that day with his bare hands.

 

He touched the gold and silver egg first, and suddenly his vision grew hazy as the room faded away and he saw standing on a burnt plain and before him a man obscured in shadows save for his eyes… his reddish-purple eyes that seemed to burn as they stared at him.

 

Stannis immediately let go of the egg and the man and his haunting eyes disappeared. Stannis was about to dismiss what he saw as only a dream when his hand brushed against the white egg with green swirls and once again the room faded from view. He saw he was in an unending snowfield where a man was walking across in a well bundled cloak he at once stopped and turned to see Stannis, and all the somber Stag could see were icy blue eyes staring at him.

 

Letting go of the white and green egg, Stannis then touched the third egg, the one he had examined earlier with gloves—all black with blue zigzags and suddenly he found himself in a garden where he saw no figure but in the distance he could hear a woman’s lovely singing a sad song as she played a high harp. He touched this egg the longest wishing to see if he could see a figure like he had with the other two but only the song played until it came to a close and the vision itself vanished—returning him to his chambers. He tried touching the eggs once again, but nothing came nothing happened.

 

Then thinking it was all likely his imagination he closed the trunk and returned to bed at Lorra’s side. Come morning he had forgotten everything he had seen.


	38. Jaime III

**JAIME**

 

They were on a dusty road between Kayce and Feastfires, due to check on the next tiny village between the two. The sun was low in the sky and the early Summer heat was hard to bear—his armor feeling as though it were dripping with his sweat.

 

“Ser Jaime, what are we doing here?” asked Ser Erren as they rode out for yet another smallfolk’s thatched cottage.

 

“I hardly believe you are one for forgetting why we are—” clucked Jaime.

 

“I know perfectly well _why_ we are here, but I asked _what_ —not why,” countered Ser Erren, spurring his mouth to keep a better pace with Jaime’s horse.

 

_Sometimes I feel as though I were a nursemaid in a nursery than a knight with these holy fools…_

 

“We are validating the claim brought before the King.”

 

_And all we’ve found are gravestones…_

 

“Are you as dense as your armor? What are we doing here? Right now. We come too late to be of any good to the smallfolk, and have little evidence beyond the word of a few smallfolk and some graves—hardly enough to act upon. I say we’re waisting our time out here,” emphasized Ser Erren stubbornly.

 

Jaime scowled.

 

_Of course we’re waisting our time out here, but if we are to keep the people’s trust and bring some sort of law and order to the Westerlands, being seen inquiring about their issues goes a long way…_

 

And were the man closer to him in age, Jaime would have halted his horse and thrown down his gauntlet right there and then. Instead Jaime settled for a warning.

 

“Careful, Ser Erren, remember that I am a Lannister. I might don the white cloak, but do not for an instant forget that I pay my debts,” growled Jaime.

 

“And we all know the value of House Lannister is worth these days,” mumbled one of Ser Erren’s companions. That was it. Jaime pulled on his mount’s reigns and turned so that he was facing the closest companions of Ser Erren.

 

“I would know who spoke last!” declared Jaime.

 

None of the men who had behind him, who were in various stages of stopping, answered immediately.

 

“Do not make me repeat myself!” warned Jaime.

 

And soon Ser Erren’s squire, an man who had never had the honor to be knighted or had simply chosen not to given the prowess Jaime had witnessed from the grey-bearded man, nudged his mount forward just a bit and met Jaime’s eyes.

 

_This will be too easy…_

 

While their eyes remained locked, Jaime detached his gauntlet and was about to throw it down when suddenly a shouting voice distracted everyone’s attention. On a little hill, not far from them, Jaime observed a small gathering centered on a black robed Septon. The group who listened to his impassioned speech of the Septon mainly consisted of various smallfolk farmers, yeomen, and even one merchant Jaime noticed—most likely having heard the man as they did, while traveling by on the road. Jaime had hoped that after leaving King’s Landing that he would have left the issue of the growing religious debates behind him. Apparently he was not so lucky. It was then that Ser Erren, plus a few of his Holy Hundred men paused to listen, and Jaime clucked to his mount to get him to join them.

 

_Seven Hells those holy fools…_

 

“Just see how nothing in this world lasts for forever! Just see how everything is in constant turmoil! Just see how people are reduced from riches to rags. What else do we find in the world but trouble everywhere? If we find a place of rest, what certainty do we have that we'll remain there? Where could we find a small corner of the world that would be peaceful if only for a short time? I tell you now this world and its temptations are not worth bread and salt!”

 

“But what of the torments of Seven Hells?” cried out a man, who was supported by a chorus of uncoordinated ayes and claps.

 

“What hope do we have if we cannot afford to pay our Septons for forgiveness?” asked another woman.

The Septon, Jaime noticed, saw the approaching Ser Erren under the banner of the Holy Hundred, and stared at them before answering the questions of the crowd with, “The Seven Heavens are a place of salvation that one must earn… there is but a little gate… a narrow path to that salvation… tread off that path and you are lost to tortures even worse than those we have suffered in this world.”

 

“And pray tell, what is this path, Septon?” called out Ser Erren suspiciously as he stopped his mount on the end .

 

“The _holy_ path,” was the gaunt Septon’s vague reply. It was then Ser Erren seemed to notice that the crowd’s attention was on him, and none of them looked all too pleased to see his banner.

 

“Have any of you suffered the recent loss of a child?” inquired Jaime, fed up with the awkward silence.

 

“There is not a man or woman here who has not felt such a loss, Ser,” replied the Septon pointedly.

 

“Do you speak for the smallfolk then? Or have their tongues been cut out?” japed Ser Erren’s old squire with a loud laugh at the end to punctuate what he said.

 

“We come from the King and seek to discover the truth as to the rumors that have reached King’s Landing of a massacre of babes,” interjected Jaime before Ser Erren’s squire could dig himself into a further hole.

 

Still none of the smallfolk answered, with only the Septon saying cautiously, “Children die… especially the young ones. ‘Tis the nature of things.”

 

At this a woman began to break down in tears, she became so hysteric she ran away from the group, and Jaime watched as she ran through the remainder of the field and on into the recently tilled farm field.

 

“Your name, Septon?” asked one of Ser Erren’s companions after a meaningful look from Ser Erren.

 

“Callen,” was the Septon’s reply.

 

“We should speak further, Septon Callen, but now we have other matters to attend to,” was Ser Erren’s odd reply, and Jaime was left bewildered as Ser Erren returned to the road, leaving Jaime stunned as the man of the Holy Hundred trot his horse down the hill. It wasn’t until Ser Erren was far enough away that Jaime was brought out of his shock to hear the Septon continue in softer—though still quite firm—tones. This prompted Jaime to then return to his men, though his eyes followed the woman’s path, which had come to a standstill near a fence.

 

“It is a holy path which cannot be bought with copper, silver, gold, or indulgences of any sort. It instead is earned and rewarded through hard labor and a purely led life. We should not fear the labor the Creator has set before us, but accept it as part of our duty to help us strive towards betterment. We people are weak corrupt animals, whose only saving grace comes from what the Creator has given us. We must strive to bring forth that goodness and actively work to nourish it. Become self-aware and beat back our own wicked tendencies and backslidings…” at this point the Septon’s voice faded into the distance from Jaime’s hearing.

 

_And what is a life of hard labor if death is its only respite?_

 

Upon joining up with the rest of his men, he sent them on under Ser Erren’s instruction—though he knew that that would mean shoddy inspection of the upcoming village due to Ser Erren’s doubts. Jaime simply felt there was something to this crying woman and he felt he should be the one to speak with her, and that she would do better speaking alone, not in front of a group of well-armed impatient knights. Ser Erren accepted leadership and spurred the men onward, leaving Jaime to say he’ll catch up soon enough and then urge his mount on up next to the woman.

 

She was far enough away from the Septon that he could not hear him still, and she did not notice his approach until he was nearly on top of her—such was her grief, Jaime figured. He stopped his mount and then spoke to the woman, “When did they come for your child?”

 

“They came for all my children—even my husband’s seed… me husband had hair as black as the Ironseed, and he gave them to … and the Frey knights… said I was a salt wife spy and they slaughtered them all. All my babes… they were the last of me husband…” sobbed the woman.

 

“Are you sure it was Frey knights?” questioned Jaime, though he already knew the answer from hearing the same thing over and over again.

 

“Aye… Frey of Feastfires… the one with the Lannister Lion mixed with that damn bridge,” sniffled the woman.

 

Jaime nodded and then said almost too quickly from too much practice, “I thank you good woman and you have my condolences for your children.”

 

“Condolences?” asked the woman in confusion.

 

“My sympathy… my shared sorrow… my sadness,” expounded Jaime a bit haphazardly, until he found a word the woman comprehended.

 

“What good are these condolences when all me children be in the ground?” snapped the woman at him as he prodded his horse to return to the road.

 

_What good are they indeed?_  
  


* * *

 

  
Compared to the other castles on the coast of the Sunset Sea, Feastfires saw a tremendous amount of activity. Upon arrival Jaime and his company had to duck under a large wooden beam carried by two laborers. With all the people gathered here at Feastfires, Jaime estimated that Aunt Genna had likely gathered all the skilled labor in the Westerlands that wasn’t in use at Lannisport. His men and horses were led to the rebuilt stables and then to the newly finished Great Keep that had been reconstructed from the great fire that had destroyed it when Jaime had last visited.  
  
To say that upon demanding to speak with Lord Frey of Feastfires that Jaime had expected to see his uncle by marriage would have been incorrect. From the beginning he had suspected it was really Aunt Genna behind all the deaths of the babes. And thus to be asked to speak with her separately from the rest of his men after listening to a half mumbled dismissal of the charges from his small balding uncle had been expected by Jaime. And so he was sitting with her privately in her own lioness’ den of a salon that she had decked out in the finest red tapestries with golden trim. To Jaime it seemed to him that he was submerged in a sea of blood. A carpet with the golden lion of House Lannister upon a field of red that Jaime recognized from her private apartments in Casterly Rock apparently had made the journey as well, but much of the decoration in the salon appeared to be newly made.  
  
“How did you build this all so quickly?” asked Jaime, still half in amazement at how quickly  
  
“We mine and mint gold, or have you forgotten that?”  
  
“And you have a shortage of miners if I recall, what given the rebellion,” reminded Jaime pointedly.  
  
“What cannot be gathered by mining can easily be collected through higher taxes and fealties,” answered Genna dismissively. She then approached him holding a gilded goblet filled with red wine.  
  
“Drink,” she commanded as he took the glass from her and eagerly quenched a thirst he had not realized he’d had before that moment. As he did he noticed his large Aunt had not retreated, but instead had hovered over him watching him drink the wine intently. When he had finished his first gulp of the wine, she then brought her now free hand up and began to run it through his hair on the top of his head like she had when he had been a child.  
  
“You look starved… haven’t you had a decent meal?” questioned his Aunt as she continued to stroke his hair like she were petting a house cat.  
  
Jaime bristled at the attention and meeting her eyes he replied, “If I’m a little thin, it’s only from riding around your lands trying to determine the truth behind reports that have reached the King’s ear and having to live off of a soldier’s rations.”  
  
His overly painted Aunt retreated at the mention of the King, as though she were a cat that had been brought to water. As she returned to her own gilded throne with soft red cushions directly across from his simple gilded chair without cushions she hissed, “Lies. That’s what I bet has reached the King’s ear.”  
  
“Did I imagine the graves upon graves of dead infants I’ve seen then? All of which everyone confirms were black of hair?” retorted Jaime.  
  
She was ready for that apparently as she replied as quickly on his heels with, “I know it is difficult for you, but for just one moment let us put aside your white cloak and my… husband’s lordship and simply speak as kin.”  
  
Nearly slamming his empty goblet down upon the gilded end table by his seat, he roared, “You’ve nearly killed half a generation of infants and you have the gall—”  
  
“I have killed no one,” she answered calmly.  
  
“Ordering the act to be done is just as heinous as—”  
  
She interrupted him once again. “Protecting my people is a heinous act?!”  
  
“You call ripping the babes out of their mothers’ arms and dashing their skulls against rocks protection?!”  
  
“As I said, lies have reached the King’s ear. Jaime, you seem to be under the misinterpretation that those… droppings the… Ironborn left behind were ever Westerlanders,” she replied calmly… far too calmly. Jaime was used to his aunt huffing and raging when provoked. Seeing her now as icily calm as a Stark through him for a loop, enough for his Aunt to press her point further, saying “When will you learn that before anything else, blood matters most of all?”  
  
“Those infants had just as much Westerlander blood in them as they had Iron!” he rebounded.  
  
She smirked as she answered him, “To a certain degree aye, but as you men are quite apt to remind us women it’s the _father’s_ blood that counts more.”  
  
His aunt took a quick breath before continuing, “How many would have taken after their Westerlander mothers? Not many. It takes more than one woman to raise a child. In your condemnation of this act did you ever stop to consider what these Iron droppings would be subjected to as they matured? Do you think after what the northwestern coast has suffered that _any_ village would treat these children as fellow Westerlanders? Don’t even try and delude yourself into thinking that they or their treacherous mothers would be given any consideration. Now tell me did these lies that reached the King’s ear, did they include the tales of some of the villages who swarmed these mothers’ huts and killed her and the Iron dropping in their sleep? For that has also happened.”  
  
Jaime did not know how to respond to that, so he held his tongue.  
  
She continued rather logically, stating, “And when the only source of Westerlander pride or acceptance can be found in their mother, what chance do you think is there of them growing into loyal Westerlanders? Mightn’t they instead turn to their _sires’_ examples instead? Why be Westerlander when the Westerlanders—for good reason—don’t want or accept you? I can hear the debate in their little heads now… _Isn’t my blood filled with iron as much as gold?_ And what is an Ironborn but a glorified thief, murderer, and rapist?”  
  
Once again she took a breath, seeming to gain further conviction and a cool passion fuelling her words as she continued further, “Am I, as… the lady of my… husband’s lands to let another generation of thieves, murderers, and rapists bloom and bear fruit? To allow them to grow so that they can terrorize my people once more in a generation’s time? After what one generation has already done to Lannisport—to the former lords of these castles—to your uncles, and to nearly every Westerlander woman? I’d be a fool or a soft-hearted woman to allow such a thing to happen again! And I am no mere woman… I may wear a bridge, but I am most surely a lioness! And a lioness protects her den!”  
  
Jaime could only quietly reply “Not all the babes would have grown up to be thieves, murderers, and rapists, as you so eloquently put it.”  
  
“And can you look at a babe and tell me whether they’ll grow to be good or evil? Tell me of one such person who has such a talent and I will pay them handsomely,” scoffed his Aunt before finishing her glass of wine.  
  
“If this is such an effective way to cull future generations of thieves, murderers, and rapists, why not extend the practice? Why stop with just the children the Ironborn leave behind them?”  
  
She dismissed, “Just like a man to argue an irrational extremity as a reason for a solution to not be taken.”  
  
She was avoiding the point, of that Jaime could clearly see. She could justify the murders all she liked, but murder was murder no matter how you dressed it. And child killing was a heinous act before the Seven.  
  
“I will take the truth to the King,” he announced as he stood up, intending to depart for King’s Landing immediately, knowing that any further conversation with his aunt would be a waste of time.  
  
“Do that, Jaime… and make sure that you tell the entire truth when you do, for little boys who lie are not worthy of their white cloaks, now are they?” retorted Aunt Genna with an odd laugh and an eerie smile upon her lips. One that haunted him as he felt odd stomach pains all the way back to King’s Landing.


	39. Denys VI

**DENYS**

 

When Lysa at long last broke the news to him that she was with child—waiting until her third moon had passed before telling him—Denys had been grateful but also immediately overcome with worry. He wanted to lock himself in the library of the Eyrie, staying up until his eyes were dry, itchy, and sore from the amount of time he would spend hovering over a book detailing the stages and steps involved in a woman’s quickening and the subsequent birth of a child. But he could not.

 

The mountain clans had grown worse, the final straw being when they burned the village of Riverrock to the ground. There was nothing to do but ride out and meet with them, either in battle or some kind of treaty—though he doubted the latter could ever be settled. Cedrik for his part was more cooperative than he had been before, said nothing more than he had to to Denys, which was fine as far as Denys was concerned. He could steel himself with regards to the boy then and less likely to make the same mistake of sympathy that he had before.

 

The plan was a simple one. They would ride down the road through the mountains towards the Bloody Gate while keeping Cedrik out and open for all to see. Lure the Mountain clans out of their hiding spot, and when they come to free him, surround them with his forces disguised in plainclothes as lesser nobles, servants, and attendants riding out supposedly attended by only a few guards. Denys would not make that mistake again, but he’d use the fact that he had as a weapon against the mountain clans. He arranged it so that one third of the men were awake during the night, giving the other men the opportunity to sleep, so that they would not be taken by surprise while they slept.

 

In the very early misty hours and purple sky of the fourth day from Stone, Denys walked about the makeshift camp they had set up. He was beginning to worry that the mountain clans wouldn’t take the bait—or worse they had moved to lay siege to the lands they left behind them which now were not as well defended, when he came upon Cedrik in his cave. The boy was always up with the sun. Denys watched him for a bit as the boy fiddled with the fraying end of his leather hide shirt to pass the time, but then out of nowhere his head suddenly jerked up as though he had heard something—but Denys heard nothing, at first.

 

Then, at a long distance away, Denys heard from high up among the ragged cliff they were encamped beside what sounded like a faint horn blast.

 

Denys’ eyes met Cedrik’s and saw what looked to be an eager hope that had been lacking from those slate grey eyes. Denys knew now that they were coming. He had just the opportunity to tell an aid to wake what men still slept and don his helmet before he heard the familiar ringing of metal in the distance. Prepared, this time, Denys unsheathed his sword and rushed out to lead his men. It was a decently sized raiding party—with more than a few boys of Cedrik’s age or slightly younger part of the oncoming force—that alone gave Denys his estimate of their fighting forces, they were lacking the men to lead them or the support of the clan leader on this rescue attempt—either situation was likely good for them. By the time the angered boys and few men realized they had rushed into an ambush, it was too late as his men swarmed them on all sides, but even this did not cause them to immediately give up as they fought to press their way out of the surrounding knights and armored warriors sworn to Denys. But they had little luck. The eldest boys soon gave up upon realizing this—with the few young men there even purposely daring his men to kill them in search of some honor dying in battle. One of the elder ones with blue paint smeared across his face that Denys fought hand on hand, upon receiving a slash to his bowels simply stared at it for a moment then recovered and re-engaged Denys in a more desperate battle—eventually ending with Denys’ sword through his unprotected gut. The soldier then pulled the sword further into himself before collapsing dead. It was the youngest ones oddly enough who had the most spunk to keep resisting, though obviously trapped. It wasn’t until the last one was left—a tall, lanky lad with messy brown hair and a rage unlike any of the others had. Finally Denys heard a voice yell out above the rest which distracted the young clan boy.

 

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” called the voice.

  
Denys then turned to see it was Cedrik who had said these words, then adding once the clamor of swords had fallen silent, “They’ve won…Merrik.”

 

The tall lanky boy, Merrik stared at Cedrik as though he knew him not, before anger once again surged in his face and he tried charging for the caged wagon. Now no longer paying attention, Merrik was easily disarmed and forced to surrender.

 

As the new young prisoners were gathered and locked in a separate caged wagon from Cedrik that had been used to haul supplies before being emptied, Denys pondered at what course of action to take. Knowing that the clan leader likely did not agree or have the men to face him gave him an edge. If he was amenable then surely the Sons of the Mists might possibly see reason? After all why would they risk the lives of the future of their clan?

 

Unfortunately the only way to find out was by the very same boys he had captive. Weighing his options he decided to go to Cedrik first and foremost.

 

“How many winters has your father seen?” asked Denys suddenly, hoping to catch the young clan boy off guard.

 

“Six,” answered Cedrik suspiciously.

 

_One less than Jon had…_

 

“And have you any brothers?” asked Denys.

 

“All Mists are brothers and sisters,” growled Cedrik.

 

_Your kin they might be, but I highly doubt the entire clan comes from your father’s loins…_

 

“And if I were to send one back with a message to the Mists of the Mists demanding that he meet me or that your fellow _brothers’_ will die?”

 

Cedrik scoffed, “You wouldn’t kill them. They’d be dead already if you would.”

 

Denys smirked, showing more confidence than he actually felt as he said, “Aye, you know that, but would your father?”

 

Cedrik did not answer, and Denys had his answer. After much fretting Denys decided to send one of the boys who had not been so filled with rage in the battle—enough to give up when clearly surrounded—back to the Mists of the Mists with the message to meet where the Mountains and road met the beginning of the vale, three days’ ride from where they were. The company was then instructed to pack up and move out, making for the beginning of the vale as quick as possible. He used the time to give himself enough time to plan his next move and possibly an offer if the old man could see reason enough.  
  
After encamping plainly at the spot and waiting for nearly a sennight, at long last did a band of men come down out of the mountains to the edge of the road. They were all old men, likely long past the hope of siring more sons, and they were led by a grizzled old man, dressed in furs and leathers, with long grey hair tied back loosely to keep it out of his face, a large furrowed brow, and a craggy face with a deep set of wrinkles. The only young man accompanying him was the one Denys recognized as having sent off into the mountains.

 

This clan is far smaller than I figured… hopefully… they may have men hiding amongst the hills yet…

 

Bread and salt was brought before the man who Denys took to be the Mists of the Mists and it was accepted and the meeting began.

 

“Where’s my son?” grunted the Mists of the Mists.

 

Denys had one of his men bring Cedrik forward, his hands tied together, but not allowed to fully approach his father.

 

“Do I eat bread and salt only to see my son tied up like a hog?” growled the Mists of the Mists.

 

“Before I would return your son and his… brothers to you, I would have us treat.”

 

“No, that is not honorable,”

 

“Not honorable? Is it honorable to attack and burn a village full of women and children to the ground?” snapped Denys in reply.

 

At this the Mists seemed to clench his jaw—as if he were taken off guard. He eventually recovered by saying, “Andal women and children,” as though their lives were worth less by the fact they were likely of Andal blood.

 

“And if I were to reply that taking the lives of your Mist sons… saying that they mattered not being as they’re only First Men?” rebounded Denys pointedly.

 

For this the Mists seemed to have no answer, giving Denys room to add, “As long as we see the deaths of each others’ people as worth little, this killing will continue. Can the Sons of the Mists stand to loose more men than it already has?”

 

The Mists of the Mists furrowed his brow even further as he questioned, “What do you mean?”

 

“Take this message to your clan—they can continue to live in the mountains as they have, I may even give empty lands adjacent to the mountains to a clan if it so desires to resettle, but that is all. When my son is full grown he will take a clanswoman for a wife, and whichever clan leader or his son who desires her may have my eldest daughter for wife—enough of this senseless fighting. The rest of the realm lives side by side Andal and First Men, it’s time the Vale did as well,” offered Denys. He could tell some of his lords present did not like the idea, but considering the direction Robert was taking the rest of the realm, if he did not at least offer to do this, he might find the mountain clans insisting upon their rights soon enough.

 

_Best to be the one to set the terms…_

 

“Let the boys go and I will think on this.”

 

“I will let all but two go until I receive an answer from you,” replied Denys and he kept his word, keeping Merrik and Cedrik for the time being while the elder Mists reunited with their younger sons.

 

Merrik was put in with Cedrik to save room—an idea which apparently seemed to be quite poorly made when the two began to fight not long after they had been left alone together. At long last the fight was broken up and the two were returned to separate caged wagons for the sake of keeping the peace amongst the camp. Merrik, to Denys’ dissatisfaction had bloodied Cedrik’s nose and given him a black eye which Denys had the maester take a look at.

 

“Quite a passionate _brother_ ,” commented Denys idly as he observed the maester set about his work with Cedrik.

 

“Merrik has always been angry… ever since he was a babe…” answered Cedrik.

 

“But to take it out on you, that would mean you’ve done something he thinks is wrong,” observed Denys.

 

To this Cedrik said nothing in response as usual, and Denys left considering how he would tell the Mists of the Mists of this incident.

 

After a sleepless night in which Denys prepared his men for a sneak attack that never came, the Mists of the Mists returned with his answer.

 

With obvious distaste the elder Mists said, “I will take your message to the rest of the clans if you can defeat me in battle. But if I win, I get the rest of the boys and we leave and I say nothing to the rest of the clans.”

 

To this Denys agreed, and the next day they met to settle the matter. To Denys’ surprise the old man was more nimble than he appeared—especially with the ax he wielded. It gave Denys a worrying sense of adrenile as he wondered for only a brief second if he had in fact made the right choice. But has steel met bronze the next moment, he knew that questioning himself at this point was fruitless and set it aside as Denys turned his mind to meeting the Mists’ blows an pushing his own advantage. It was the quietest duel that Denys had ever thought, with only the ringing of the metal off the mountains to bring any sound to this otherwise quiet moment in their lives. The duel was long and drawn out, but in the end Denys at long last managed to disarm the old man by knocking his ax from his hand and with panting breath stood over the old man flat on his back.

 

“Yield,” grunted Denys between breaths.

 

And the Mists of the Mists did so with a wordless grunt and a nod of his hand. Merrik was returned to the Mists of the Mists with Cedrik promised to be returned after the rest of the clansmen had met with Denys at Stone.

 

_I’ll defeat each clan leader in single combat if I have to… but one way or another, this will come to an end…_

 

By the time Lysa delivered Denys’ first child, a boy he named Edmyn in honor of Lysa’s family and Ned, Denys had met with over half the clans, defeating each leader in single combat, while the remaining clans stayed aloof. As such the Sons of the Mists, the Burned Men, the Painted Dogs, and the Milk Snakes all swore fealty to Denys as “the Arryn”. In return Denys promised them that one of their daughters would marry his son, allowed them some of the empty vale lands by the edge of the mountains in return that they stopped raiding—and promised protection from the Black Ears, Moon Brothers and Stone Crows should they turn on them. As such Denys laid down a relationship like what he had read the Starks had settled with their own mountain clans centuries upon centuries ago, something his Arryn ancestors should have done but he now saw had been far too proud to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive my absence, I've been sick of late. The next chapter is an Elia one followed after that by a Sandor one which I've been eagerly anticipating writing ever since the Sandor plot began.


	40. Elia III

**ELIA**

 

Elia hated it when Rhaella became impatient, which she seemed to be more frequently now that she was once again with child. Her twin daughters were but a year old and yet she and Bonifer had once again managed to quicken her with child despite now being past forty. Accordingly this “late in life gift of the Seven” was considered a miracle to the Lord Warden and the Queen Dowager. Elia simply thought that it meant they were too holy to consider using moontea. To see her goodmother and her growing brood pained Elia as she was reminded of the fact she would never have another child but Rhaenys. She loved her sweet little goodsisters dearly of course, little Naerys was a quiet and sweet little thing—much like Rhaenys—while Aelinor and her Hasty hair was quite wild and willful a babe already at her tender age. Seven only knew how this third child would turn out. Rhaella and Bonifer of course were praying for yet another girl, to be named after Rhaella herself, and for the sake of Rhaenys’ future marriage to Prince Durran, Elia found herself secretly hoping and praying just as much along with them.

 

As they sipped their chilled wine in the late afternoon summer heat, Elia took note through the opened doors that led out onto a patio overlooking the Red Keep’s gardens, of how the sun had inched even further down from its afternoon pinnacle. They were waiting for the arrival of the young Queen with her young Prince to join them. Given the opportunity by Queen Lyanna’s tardiness, Elia took time to observe her daughter and goodsisters at play. Rhaenys played with her younger aunts nearby on a carpet that had been laid out across the marble floor of the chamber, the twin girls having discovered the joys of the dolls that Rhaenys owned. Naerys hugged the little doll that Rhaenys had shared with her tightly to her small body, while Aelinor had picked up two others and started smashing them against each other—much to Rhaenys’ dismay. At the moment, the six nameday old Rhaenys had put aside dressing her own favorite doll and was to trying to rescue the two wooden dolls from Aelinor’s grasp.

 

“Rhaenys,” warned Elia when she started to become a little rough with Aelinor.

 

“But she’ll ruin them!” pleaded Rhaenys quite openly.

 

“Then we can have Mylos make you two new ones,” offered Rhaella rather easily.

 

At this though, Rhaenys did not seem to be satisfied, saying almost stubbornly in response, “But I like them!”

 

Elia set down her wine glass rather quickly, spilling some onto the table as she reminded her daughter, “You will not speak to her grace, your grandmother, in such a fashion!”

 

Rhaenys had begun to become a bit obstinate herself over the last year—rather like Oberyn could be when he set his mind to something. The fact that she often took to playing with her Sand Snake cousins likely only encouraged matters.

 

Thankfully at this point Queen Lyanna arrived with her four ladies in waiting. All were dressed in riding breeches and looking as if they had just jumped off their horses—an activity she had taken up far more often, riding her mount just outside of the city walls with her ladies in waiting. Rhaella, Elia knew, liked horse riding as much as the next noblewoman, but she often found times to express her dislike for how the young Queen rode her horse—barebacked and in breeches—to Elia. Rhaella mostly disapproved for it had begun setting a precedent amongst the nobles of the Crownlands for the young women of the court to take more active pursuits and attire that Rhaella—ever the consummate and delicate lady—had never been that skilled in or trained to be good in. As for Elia, she had always stared on with envy as her delicate health had kept her from participating in such activities with her fellow Dornish “sisters” since childhood. She had always been the one to cheer and encourage Oberyn in his pursuits, and though her mother had taught her how to use and throw knives, much beyond that had always caused Elia to become short of breath.

 

“Please forgive my tardiness, but I quite lost track of the time,” apologized Lyanna in a flurry. She had the young Prince balanced on her hip as she entered, his black hair already as wild as the young Queen’s, despite its Baratheon color. She then plopped the one nameday boy onto the floor with Naerys and Aelinor who were quite fond of their Baratheon cousin—especially Aelinor who abandoned Rhaenys’ dolls to play with the wooden blocks that Durran had taken interest with. Rhaenys’ attention left the three one year olds on the floor and her attention instead was caught by the fresh presence of the young Queen.

 

“Quite understandable, given that it’s impossible to hear the bells,” quipped Rhaella quite purposefully, knowing full well the Bells of the Sept of Balor could be heard for miles around the city. But Lyanna, Elia noticed simply shrugged this statement off as she then settled herself down in an empty chair while her ladies settled in their own corner of the room and entered into their own conversation.

 

Lyanna was given a Dornish blood orange to peel, abstaining from the chilled wine. Although the young Queen was not inclined to drink wine, she typically enjoyed a watered down version of it. But Elia noticed she had been avoiding the drink altogether for a moon or so now due to the fact it supposedly made her stomach turn—or so Elia’s ladies had heard from Lyanna’s ladies.

 

“I heard that they haven’t yet found that man… oh what was his name… Hesse I believe? Yes, Septon Hesse,” said Lyanna as she took a slice of the blood orange she had finished peeling and popped it into her mouth. She did not look at Rhaella, but there was no doubt who Lyanna meant the topic to be of greatest concern to.

 

_Seven Hells, not this again…_

 

Rhaella continued with a slight smirk, “He hasn’t been seen in the city for a few moons now, no doubt he’s gone on to spread his heresy to some other parts… mayhaps he’s turned his attentions northward?”

 

“Mayhaps… Maidenpool is lovely this time of year, I hear,” deflected Lyanna, as she took another bite of the blood orange and almost grimaced as she did.

 

“Aye, especially it being so near that rugged… beauty of Cracklaw Point. Do tell me, how are your plans to construct a wooden keep proceeding?” asked Rhaella with a distinctive edge that at once seemed disarming and alarming.

 

“As well as I expected with Lord Qarlton controlling the purse strings... I had to suggest that it might in time turn into Durran’s seat before he agreed to expend some of your late husband’s horde,” answered Lyanna coolly.

 

“A future Summerhall then? What shall you call it, Clawhall?”

 

“To be honest I had not considered a name, but as Lady of the Point, I do need a Keep to administer my people from in my name, and eventually my son to do so for me…” beamed Lyanna as she looked over the table to where Durran and Rhaella’s twins were enjoying a good game of building up a tall tower of blocks only to knock them over.

 

Elia at this moment chose to turn her attentions to Rhaenys, picking up her daughter and setting her on her lap, to keep her from standing awkwardly by the edge of the table.

 

“Would you like some fruit, my sweet little dragon?” asked Elia

 

Rhaenys nodded and reached over the table to grab a blood orange from the centerpiece of the table of her own before suddenly a piece of the peeled fruit was offered to her by Lyanna.

 

“Thank you, your grace,” replied Rhaenys rather demurely in contrast to the stubbornness she had shown her grandmother. Her daughter took the proffered piece of orange and then proceeded to eat it.

 

“You can have the rest of mine, I’m suddenly not very hungry,” said Lyanna pushing the peeled blood orange to her future gooddaughter, which Rhaenys happily took and thanked once again. There was something about the interaction which made Elia want to clutch Rhaenys and hold on tight to her.

 

“Riding for too long can be most upsetting to the stomach, I find,” interjected Rhaella as she finished her wine before calling for a servant to refill her glass.

 

Just then Lord Warden Hasty entered the room, with a confidence Elia knew could only mean one thing… more talk of this Faith of One. He bowed to acknowledge Queen Lyanna’s presence and then returned to a less formal approach.

 

“My love, I have the most wonderful of news…” said the Lord Warden as he bent over from behind the back of the chair to kiss Rhaella chastely but affectionately on her cheek.

 

“And that would be?” questioned Rhaella.

 

“Hesse has been found!” pronounced Bonifer proudly, as though he had had a hand in the action.

 

“Where?” questioned Rhaella with anticipation.

 

“Lord… Rosby has him,” muttered Bonifer with a distinct displeasure.

 

“May the Seven bless Lord Gyles,” sighed Rhaella.

 

“Don’t be so quick to bless him,” countered Bonifer.

 

“Not Lord Gyles…” groaned Rhaella.

 

Bonifer continued, “Lord Gyles says he is under his guest right and as such cannot be harmed… Meanwhile the heretic sent out a letter to the High Septon for me to deliver which claims he would like to speak before a public council about his views and whether or not he has truly erred.”

 

Rhaella nearly dropped her glass of wine onto the table.

 

“He claims he is not beyond reconciliation if the errors he is charged with could be proven,”

 

“Reconciliation? He charges the High Septon to prove he’s wrong?! The impudence of that man!”

 

“Is it not customary that a man before he is decreed a heretic to receive a trial?” questioned Lyanna as she played with a piece of the orange skin she had peeled.

 

“Aye but to make such a bold statement—” began Bonifer.

 

“If he is not beyond reconciliation then someone should speak with him about his… mistakes,” added Elia as she shifted Rhaenys off her lap, the girl having finished the blood orange pieces that Lyanna had given her and obviously bored by all the talk of religion.

 

“That is for the High Septon to decide,” answered Bonifer.

 

But Elia could not help but think that if anything the chance at settling all these matters peacefully would be passed up by the new High Septon Bones who was quite eager to prove himself and strike a blow to the “Faith of One” and show that it held no power, given the last High Septon’s demise. If someone could

 

_I could…_

 

But Bonifer had kept them away when Whytclyff had been hung, saying that an execution was no place for a lady, and clearly he’d come up with some similar type of excuse if she suggested going to Rosby herself along with him.

 

The issue troubled Elia as she tried to sleep later that night, but unable to do so she sought Oberyn out—this time not interrupting his nocturnal activities as he had yet to retire from reading missives over a dying candle by his desk. He had bags under his eyes and a half empty glass of wine within easy reach.

 

“I have no new news from Pentos,” was his automatic reply.

 

“I did not come to speak on Pentos, Oberyn…” she rebuffed.

 

“What did you come to speak with me about then?” he asked.

 

Quietly she leaned down to hug him and took the opportunity to whisper into his ear, “Can you sneak me out of the Red Keep for a day and back into it without my being noticed?” she asked.

 

“Are you mad, Elia?!” Oberyn protested.

 

“It’s about Hesse…”

 

“That heretic?”

 

“I overheard that he is not beyond reconciliation… now we both know that if Septon Bones gets his hands on Hesse soon he’ll only have the man killed, which given the growing number of people who listen to him and other rogue Septons like him… will only cause more troubles in the realm. But if he can be brought back into the light of the Seven…”

 

“There are other people who can do such a task,” dismissed Oberyn.

 

“I fear not for all who take interest in his case declare him beyond redemption before a trial.”

 

“And you don’t?”

 

“Not if he is willing to recant,” answered Elia.

 

Oberyn sighed, “I can’t assure your protection outside of the Red Keep beyond giving you a disguise and a guard... this is very dangerous what you’re asking.”

 

“I’ll take my knives for my protection. Am I not a daughter of Nymeria as much as you are a son?” she asked.

 

“One who is weak of breathe…” grumbled Oberyn, for which Elia slapped Oberyn’s upper arm playfully.

 

“I’m going,” she warned, leaving unsaid that she’d go even if he did not help her to leave the Keep.

 

“Fine… the day after tomorrow at dawn you’ll find a guard outside your room… mention to him only the word Duskendale and he will provide you with a suitable disguise and lead you out of the Red Keep,” groaned Oberyn as he rubbed his eyes with his hands, and Elia kissed Oberyn on his cheek, complained how scratchy he had let it become and left him to his letters. She knocked on one of her ladies’ doors and when her bleary eyed woman answered it she entered and explained that on the day after the morrow she would be leaving for the day and to have her ladies send their excuses for her absence to the rest of the court. After some convincing, Elia was assured of her lady’s compliance and returned to her own chambers.

 

The following day passed slowly, but Elia spent much of it playing with Rhaenys and teaching her daughter her letters. When nightfall came she slept and awoke an hour early in eager anticipation, and when the first signs of light could be seen in the distance from her window. Elia rose and putting on one of her more simple gowns opened the door to find two people standing outside, a guard and her eldest violet-haired nephew, Obi.

 

“What are you doing out of bed?” questioned Elia with a bit of shock, to her two and ten nameday nephew.

 

“Father thought I could be of some assistance to you,” answered Obi, with a grin he’d obviously learned from watching Oberyn—the same one that all through Oberyn’s childhood Elia found she could hardly refuse.

 

“And did your father know you were listening to conversations you shouldn’t be hearing?” she questioned, still disbelieving that Oberyn had sent him.

 

“He said you could use some help learning how to go unnoticed and he thought I could help,” replied Obi simply.

 

_This is exactly like something Oberyn would do to try and dissuade me…_

She could hear his satisfied smug voice in her head as he said, ‘You couldn’t possibly leave with my son…'

_But with the chance to settle this…_

 

“Come inside,” sighed Elia, she’d hear what Obi had to suggest, but she’d make it clear to the boy that he was not coming with her. She whispered Duskendale to the plainly dressed, but still armored guard, who handed her a robe a scarf and a veil—all rather plain and looking more like something a poor merchant’s wife might wear. She slipped this on over her plain dress draping the scarf around her lower face, covering her nose and her mouth while leaving the veil and the hood of the robe to obscure the rest of her features. All the while her nephew carried on about shadows and behaving as if one was of no or little importance as a way not to stand out. By the time she was ready to leave, her nephew was leaving the room before her and then continuing down the corridor without her or the guard, wishing her luck in a loud whisper before running off.

 

_Odd… but mayhaps that’s all Obi was here to do…_

 

The plainly dressed guard then nodded and they departed in the opposite direction of the corridor. They managed to leave the Red Keep without much notice, and rode on a pair of horses out the city. Rosby, being quite close, was a ride that took most of the morning, and the sun was rising high up in the sky when she approached the small village which surrounded the old castle Lord Gyles called home. But she was too late it seemed, for once they came to the village square she saw that a stake had been raised and a crowd gathered. She recognized the new young High Septon, of Salty Dornish complexion like her which seemed darker against the white robes and crystal strings which he wore. He had hollow thin features displayed made his face and hands almost seem skeletal. High Septon Bones indeed. But what confused Elia most was the stake—they weren’t going to burn Hesse were they? And how had they taken him from Lord Gyles’ castle. What worried her though was Lord Gyles’ presence—he stood near the High Septon’s chair, coughing into a fine handkerchief and looking thoroughly displeased about the entire matter.

 

_Did they break guest right?_

 

However it seemed they had not for Hesse, when called forth, came before the High Septon without any guards and knelt before the man.

 

“You say that you are open to reconciliation,” spoke High Septon Bones with almost a sneer.

 

“Aye, I am willing to be corrected if you can show me from the Seven-Pointed Star where I am wrong,” answered Hesse almost dutifully.

 

“You are charged with challenging holy rites, and teaching—”

 

“What holy rites have I challenged?” retorted Hesse.

 

“Holy rites held most sacred by the Septs---” began the High Septon.

 

Hesse interrupted with, “Which ones?”

 

The crowd added their support to his question.

 

“This matter on indulgences,” mentioned the High Septon vaguely.

 

Hesse began, “And where in the Seven-Pointed Star does—”

 

“You step beyond your place. It is not your place to question me! As the Seven’s guide of the world, it is I who question you!”

 

“I merely wish to know exactly where I err, your holiness,” replied Hesse evenly, betraying no anger.

 

“I have heard witnesses to your decrees in King’s Landing. Men who came to me scared for their souls upon hearing what blasphemy you told them.”

 

“Where are these men?” asked Hesse calmly.

 

“I have met with them and the college of Septons have questioned them, they had no right to be here this day.”

 

“Am I not entitled to a trial?” countered Hesse.

 

“Aye, you have been given one and found guilty by those witnesses, recant your heresy or meet your fate,”

 

“How can a man be put on trial without being present for it?” asked Hesse with disbelief.

 

“Do you recant or not?” demanded the High Septon.

 

“I wish for my chance to speak pub—”

 

The High Septon stood and nearly shook his crystal staff at Hesse as he shouted, “Do not dodge my question! Do you recant or no?”

 

“I fail to see what errors in my teachings I have made, therefore I cannot recant that which I do not know I have been tried for,” replied Hesse.

 

“Your immortal soul hangs in the balance this very day, Hesse! Recant now or be forever doomed to the torments of the Seven Hells!” warned Bones with a near mad fury.

 

“I cannot recant if I have not erred,” replied Hesse stubbornly.

 

High Septon Bones merely gave a look to one of his men who approached Hesse who stood firm and strong where he stood.

 

“Y—your holiness, you said you would give Hesse a fair chance,” said Lord Gyles with disbelief.

 

“And I did. He had a fair chance to recant and he wasted it,” retorted the High Septon dismissively as Hesse had his robes riped open and he was drug to the stake where he was tied, a chain placed around his neck before the guards urged the crowd of scared smallfolk to back away as the pile of wood was lit. What was entirely odd about the whole affair was the eerie calm, almost peaceful look Hesse had as this all occurred to him. And as the fire caught on the kindling suddenly, much to Elia’s surprise Hesse began to sing.

 

“O Creator above I praise your creation,

As Father you weigh my salvation,

As Mother provide me with mercy,

As Maiden provide me with purity,

As Warrior give me strength,

As Smith give me endurance,

As Crone show me wisdom,

As Stranger you bring me to your holy haven,

O Creator above I praise your creation.”

 

The song was simple, and unlike anything Elia had ever heard, with Hesse’s lone voice wafting out above the crowd. He continued to sing, the square in almost complete silence, but his singing became more and more difficult as Hesse began to inhale the smoke. It was at this point Elia bore witness to something rather strange… some people in the crowd picked up Hesse’s song, many simply repeating “O Creator above I praise your creation” in a kind of constant loop. Others more daring picked up the verse.

 

“Quiet!” called out the High Septon, but the voices only grew louder until more singers had joined in singing. Hesse himself adding an eerie wail of a burning man to the background of the song as it continued to spread until nearly the entire square was singing. It was then Elia felt a gloved hand upon her arm and she turned to see her guard at the other end of it.

 

“This will not end well,” he rasped, and Elia had to agree as she heard High Septon Bones scream out for his guards, and hurriedly they directed their horses out of the square, but all the way back to the Red Keep Elia could not help but feel something was wrong… something was very wrong indeed if a man promised a trial by the Faith could not see the witnesses called against him, nor have his charges laid before him. Something was very wrong indeed…

 


	41. Sandor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering what happened to Jaime III Part II. It got merged with Jaime III Part I. A reminder from when I posted it:
> 
> "When I post the next chapter I'm going to move this half to the Jaime POV it belongs in and delete this added "chapter" so the next chapter can be Chapter 41."
> 
> So at long last here is the promised Sandor chapter.
> 
> This chapter has been a long time coming. When I introduced the Vikarys I knew that this is where I wanted to have them bring Sandor and Arthur so I am happy to bring a chapter I have anticipated for a long ass time to writing. It's a large chapter (over 6,500 words), and took a while to get "right" but it's well worth it.

**SANDOR**  
  
The sky was slowly growing lighter when he stumbled back to his keep from the local inn which had a few whores on the side. The cook was already up and chasing her son for failing to gather enough wood for her fire as usual. As Sandor closed the wooden gate behind him he saw one of the servant girls from behind, a sack bag across her shoulder and hanging in her front from which she grabbed and tossed feed for the chickens to peck at.  
  
 _Fuck… she’s not so bad. Where has she been hiding these past few moons?_  
  
It was then that the girl turned to go to the pig pen and Sandor got a good look at the young servant’s face, and their eyes met. Sandor immediately realized that the girl was in fact Helena, wearing old and patched clothes that were tighter fitting than the loose, almost Septa-like robes she usually wore. Their eyes were caught in each other’s glance until she blushed and turned away to return to her duties, leaving Sandor to haphazardly make his way to the Keep, cursing that he had been so quick to draw his sword. Luckily the thought of that voluptuous tall red-head from the night before managed to help finish himself off so he could fall asleep with a clear conscience.  
  
A mere two hours later the eight and ten namedays lanky not-a-knight was drug out of his nest of a bed by an insistent and scolding Arthur. Sandor thus was led to his morning practice with a splitting headache and a desire to vomit that never settled itself.  
  
“I haven’t even broken my fast!” grumbled Sandor, as he took to his sword.  
  
“If you didn’t visit that brothel of an inn again last night, you wouldn’t be feeling this poorly,” clucked Arthur.  
  
“Not all of us are built to endure a life of celibacy,” snapped Sandor cheekily.  
  
Arthur smirked at him and tried to catch him off guard with a swipe before he was ready, but instinct was too well ingrained in him now, and he managed to block the blow—though the sword had gotten quite close to his head before he had.  
  
“A little slow on the uptake this morning?” teased Arthur.  
  
More forcefully, Sandor made a conscious effort to put aside his aching head and pushed for the offensive, surprising Arthur.  
  
“Don’t get cocky,” tutted Arthur, as he blocked the swings of the sword.  
  
Sandor rejoined with a few well placed swipes that came awfully close to Arthur as he smartly replied, “You were saying?”  
  
The battle continued with each trading similar little barbs. It was a long and arduous one, giving Sandor time to recover himself as it was drawn out.  
  
It came to an end however when Sandor with a feint, managed to delude Arthur into a compromising thrust that laid his head open. Sandor merely laid his blunted sword against Arthur’s neck to make his point, and with a look of surprise, Arthur laughed.  
  
“Good… again,” said Arthur, recovering after Sandor had removed his sword and with that they engaged once again. They sparred for the entire morning, trading victories, but with Arthur winning more often overall at the end of the morning. The fact that Sandor though now was able to win at all, Sandor took as a good sign.  
  
When it came time for the midday meal, Helena herself called them inside. She seemed in a rather unusually happy mood today, humming to herself a plain but merry little tune as she brought them the light lunch of thin cuts of venison along with cooked green beans that she had planned for the meal. Sandor also noted that for some odd reason Helena had not changed into looser fitting garments, which brought his attention to her developing body.  
  
 _She looks rather… fuckable in that dress…_  
  
 _No. I can’t think that!_  
  
 _Isn’t she a woman as much as you’re a man?_  
  
 _She is going on to be a Septa… we came to an agreement._  
  
 _Why should the Seven horde that body all for themselves behind a vow of chastity?_  
  
 _Then I’d truly be married to her._  
  
 _With a body like that… would that be so fucking bad?_  
  
 _She’s a girl… only a girl._  
  
What brought Sandor back out of his thoughts was the distinctive lack of humming that came from Helena.  
  
Her happy mood ended when her eyes caught sight of a servant, Farran, who had sat down with them for the meal, like all their servants were apt to do, given the kitchen was so fucking small. But this particular servant had only been with them a few moons since he had wandered to the gate of the keep, asking if there was any labor to be had. He had odd skills he had claimed to have picked up and taught himself here and there. Before the rebellion, he had worked for the Lord of Ashemark, but during the rebellion his lord had died and now he wandered from keep to keep looking for work and picking up skills as he went—when there was no longer work to be had he moved on—and so he had existed for the last five years, or that’s at least the story he had told Sandor when asking for work. Sandor had told him if he could find himself useful he could get a square meal and sleep in the barn, but other than that to bugger off. It was not long after he had said that, that broken tables, chairs, and even leaks in the keep’s roof began to be fixed as if by magic. Though from what Sandor could recall, Helena always acted rather peculiar around the man. To be honest, Sandor found the man rather off putting himself—he had an air about him and penetrating gray-green eyes that seemed to bear right through you. The only one Sandor noticed who seemed unaffected by Farran was Arthur, who acted as though Farran almost did not exist unless he thought of him.  
  
Suddenly a small voice broke his reverie, “You haven’t touched your food, nuncle.” Sandor turned, almost expecting to see Calena once again sitting at the table, but all he saw instead was her son, Conhur, half stuffing his face and making a mess of himself.  
  
Sandor gave Conhur an instinctive scowl upon hearing the reproach, which seemed to scare the pup his nephew was, his eyes becoming even larger, and his messy cheeks shaking as his lip quivered.  
  
 _Now I’ve done it... the pup is going to cry…_  
  
But cry Conhur did not, he stopped just short of did so, closing his eyes and steeling himself, the pup continued eating his meal of salted boar's meat with his hands as they were far too small to hold a fork and knife. Sandor almost smirked to see his nephew’s response to him.  
  
 _In a lot of ways he’s like I was… before…_  
  
Conhur then had his cheeks wiped clean for him by Helena, and the boy laughed and hugged Helena.  
  
 _In other ways he’s purely Calena…_  
  
After the noonday meal it was time to practice his lance work. For this he was expected to “ride the rings”. Arthur would set a rope ring from a dummy approximately the height of a man mounted upon a horse, and while charging on his own mount armed with a lance, Sandor was to hook the rope ring on his lance. Of all the training activities Arthur had him practice, Sandor liked riding the rings the least. But today for some reason Helena had absented from whatever usual afternoon duties she had and brought out Conhur with her forming a kind of audience with the boy to watch as Sandor rode the rings. And she still was in those ill-fitting clothes.  
  
 _No. I have to focus._  
  
Each time he hooked the ring he was met with applause from Helena and a cheer from Conhur. He wanted to snarl that they were fucking distracting, but when he saw how Conhur jumped with excitement and Helena’s eyes and smile seemed encouraging… Sandor restrained himself from saying anything.  
  
When he had finished riding the rings—only missing twice the whole afternoon—his best score so far in the training to date—Arthur took his lance while he dismounted and said, “It seems time to take you North then, to see Lord Stark.”  
  
Sandor knew of Lord Stark’s interest in his development as a warrior and he also knew that Arthur declaring him ready for such a feat was at once shocked him and excited him.  
  
“And could we stop along the way to see Calena?” asked Sandor—knowing that Arthur’s approval of his skills meant that it would be time to meet his “good” brother.  
  
 _At long last he'll pay..._  
  
“We should send a raven declaring our intentions before we do—but I fail to see why we shouldn’t do so,” conceded Arthur cautiously.  
  
“Good,” answered Sandor, and he imagined—as he had often had in the forest—the duel that was to come against his “good” brother, who had stolen Calena, and mocked him with letters written by Calena’s hand that spoke of a completely unrealistic domestic bliss. He likely hovered over her and beat her if she tried to truly write of her plight and suffering at his hands. No, the man was a monster, of that Sandor believed fervently.  
  
“Don’t just stand there smirking, put away your gear, pup,” chided Arthur easily as he tossed the lance to him.  
  
Sandor caught his lance easily and lightly growled in response, “I’m no pup,”  
  
“I’m the pup!” interjected Conhur as he rushed to hug Sandor’s legs—the easiest part of him to reach.  
  
“Aye, that you are,” admitted Sandor, despite himself.  
  
“You did really really well, nuncle!” declared Conhur excitedly.  
  
Sandor accepted his nephew’s praise with a silent nod and as the boy then began to babble on about how he was likely the best knight he knew in the whole wide world. Sandor met his nephew’s eyes.  
  
“I’m no knight,” corrected Sandor.  
  
“But you will be, nuncle!” protested Conhur adamantly.  
  
“It takes one knight to make another,” answered Sandor.  
  
“Isn’t Arthur a knight?” asked Conhur innocently.  
  
A moment of silence passed between Arthur and Sandor, their eyes meeting for just a moment.  
  
“I was one, lad,” admitted Arthur uncomfortably after a long while.  
  
“Then you are one! Once a knight, always a knight, isn't that right, auntie?” protested the young pup.  
  
It was at this, that Helena, having kept herself separate from the scene, interjected herself to say, “Conhur I believe it’s time to practice your letters.”  
  
“But auntie…” whined the boy.  
  
“No arguing,” decreed Helena and she took Conhur by the hand and almost drug him back to the Keep. Arthur then took the opportunity to retreat like he always did whenever anyone mentioned his lost knighthood, and Sandor sighed and leading his horse back to the stables moved to take the saddle off his horse. He leaned his lance against the wall of the stables and sighed. As he unstrapped the saddle from his black charger, a distant but still audible voice could be heard from outside the stables.  
  
“And what have you been doing here, wasting your time?” demanded the first voice.  
  
Sandor at first ignored the voice, thinking it the cook once again scolding her layabout of a son, though the voice did not sound like the cook... but that might have just been the distance. Then another voice much deeper than he had expected answered, “I am not wasting any time. I am where I need to be when I am needed, unlike you. What are you doing, going from keep to keep, aimless, driftless—”  
  
Sandor then took a dampened cloth and washed his horse’s back.  
  
“How else am I to gain any support if I only stay in one place?” countered the first.  
  
 _Support?_  
  
The first voice then continued, “A war is coming. The people of the Gold Coast are tired of the lords besmirching their “King’s good name,” as I put it and are ready to rebel.”  
  
 _Rebel?_  
  
At this Sandor stopped washing his black charger and moved closer to the wall where he heard the voices coming from behind, hoping that by getting closer he could make out who it was who were speaking.  
  
The second voice rejoined, “And yet, where do they rebel? People grumble about high taxes these lords impose and then do nothing. When the true war comes, I shall be there, ready—”  
  
“And late to the game!” proclaimed the first voice just as Sandor was about positioned. It was then that all conversation ceased before Sandor could figure out who it was who had been speaking. He strained to hear if he could catch the next thing said, but after waiting for what surely felt too long, Sandor then knew the next sentence would never be said. Quickly Sandor moved to see who it was who had been talking, rushing out of the stables and around to the backside only to find that whoever had been there must have gone around the other way, for he saw no one. So quickly Sandor rushed back to the front of the stable—but no one was there.  
  
Between then and when the evening meal was served Sandor dwelt long and hard on all that he had heard, trying to preserve what he had heard to memory as much as he could. Not only so he could deduce who it was who had spoken—he knew all the servants who worked for him, after all of a coming war and rebellion.  
  
The second voice had claimed the first one wandered about from keep to keep—that limited the possible people down to only just one who fit the bill. Farran. But why would he want to start a rebellion. Aye if he were to want to incite one as he bragged about, traveling about from keep to keep would be one way to do so. But who was the second speaker? Of that it could be anyone as plenty of his servants he’d hired since the rebellion had ended.  
  
 _Damn._  
  
The evening meal came sooner than Sandor had expected. This evening, Helena announced that she had made the meal of honeyed ham, bread, and pea snaps herself—a meal that Sandor rather favored—deciding to give the cook a night’s rest. Conhur was obviously in one of his contrary moods—likely still upset with his “auntie” as he referred to Helena for having drug him to practice his letters earlier that day. And as such he refused to eat any of the meal. Helena tried many tactics to tempt him to eat, but they all failed to surmount his nephew’s iron will.  
  
As Helena bent over to cut the ham into smaller pieces for him to eat, Sandor could hardly keep from noticing how the girl—he had to remember that she was just a girl—would look hovering over Conhur. The front of her dress suddenly revealing a glimpse of her well round bosom—  
  
 _Fuck no!_  
  
He couldn’t finish his meal before he rose to leave the table. His obstinate nephew followed his example shortly after, taunting back to Helena, “See, even nuncle hates your stupid cooking!”  
  
The moment he heard that, it was followed almost instantly by a weighted intake of breath from Helena that caused Sandor to halt his steps and turn around and find his smug little nephew as the boy happily followed after him. One look was all it took to make the smugness on his petulant little face vanish, and the pup nearly began to whimper as he withered under his glare.  
  
 _Be kind to her…_  
  
When Sandor had thought Conhur had endured enough of the silent treatment alone, Sandor growled, “You will apologize to Helena.”  
  
Wordlessly, Conhur nodded and Sanodr then for good measure added, “Now!”  
  
That sent his nephew scurrying back into the hall and left Sandor to retreat outside in relative peace.  
  
He had meant to only get a breath of air to clam his heated blood but instead he found himself walking out the gate and past the palisade and earthen mounds he’d helped construct with Arthr in what felt like a few lifetimes ago. His feet and crotch took him once again down that long lonely path into the valley where the tiny village under his watch lay. He planned on spending yet another night in the bed of the red-haired woman, but was rebuffed with a call that the woman he wanted had taken ill.  
  
Taking it to mean that the woman was busy with another man, Sandor growled and wandered about his little village in the cool night air until he was no longer so eager for the company of a woman so he could forget the one under the roof of his own keep. He only took the excuse more seriously when on subsequent nights, Sandor met with the same reply.  
  
Sandor approached Farran the next day with a few questions about his lord at Ashemark, failing to describe the former lord of Ashemark well enough to convince Sandor—but he did not let him know that he suspected as much, with the hope that Farran would lead him to the other traitor amongst his midst. But Farran had disappeared by sundown and despite Sandor’s attempts to find him, the man was nowhere to be found.  
  
 _I should have just run my sword right through the bloody traitor and pissed on his shallow grave…_  
  
Sandor sent word to Lannisport and King’s Landing of what he had overheard, hoping that by doing so yet another senseless rebellion could be avoided. This news delayed Arthur and Sandor's departure some, but the ravens had been sent and they were expected. As such Sandor grilled his hired guards to be on highest alert.  
  
As the days rolled by, and the departure for the North drew ever closer, Sandor saw less of Helena. When Sandor asked her about this, she said she simply was fulfilling her charitable duties to go into the village to visit with the sick and poor.  
  
On the last night before he and Arthur were to set out, Sandor made one last attempt to visit the red-headed whore and lucked out by finding her at long last in the common room for the evening. He was surprised when she replied to the appearance of his coins.  
  
“Oh, I would love to fuck your brains out rotten, you dirty little dog… but I’m still feeling rather poorly.”  
  
He growled in response.  
  
“But I do know someone who you could have for the night.”  
  
At this point Sandor had been for so long without a woman that he was ready to accept the substitute to his first choice.  
  
“Where is she?” he asked through a groan.  
  
The big and tall whore answered, “Up in her room, still preparing—I’m afraid she’s rather new to our… business.”  
  
“How new?” he demanded to know.  
  
“While she says she’s been under the sheets before, I’m inclined to think her sheets have yet to been stained,” answered the whore quite diplomatically.  
  
Upon hearing this, Sandor stood. He did not want his last fuck in a long while to be with a fumbling virgin. He moved to leave, but the red-head was insistent he stayed, grabbing his elbow with her strong hands and keeping him almost completely in place.  
  
“Think of the… excitement you two will have. You teaching her how to properly pleasure a man… you using that wealth of knowledge I taught you to send her with the simplest of touches into a mind numbing lust frenzy. You know, I envy her, for a virgin is so quick to please and enjoy. You should consider yourself lucky. When you’re through with her, you’ll have her at your mercy, begging for more from you.  
  
“Now, I’ll take the money and arrange it all with her—”  
  
“I will watch you give it to her,” he snarled—he wouldn’t fall prey to that old whore’s trick, not again at least.  
  
The red-headed whore smiled. She then jumping up from her seat, grabbed his wrist with her large strength, and drug him out of the common room and up a flight of steps to a room.  
  
There she stopped and said, “This is her room. I shall see if she is ready.”  
  
And before Sandor could reply the red-head had slipped inside the room and closed it as quickly. After he recovered from his shock at being out-foxed, Sandor steeled himself and pounded on the door, expecting it to buckle open—but it did not.  
  
“Seven Hells! Keep it down out there!” called out a voice from one of the neighboring rooms that Sandor ignored for the moment.  
  
He was about to repeat his demand for admittance into the room when the door opened just a sliver and the red-head appeared once again with a piece of cloth which she held up for him to take and said, “Tie this about your eyes.”  
  
“Fuck that! I want my fucking silver back and I ain’t falling for no bloody shake down!” retorted Sandor.  
  
“This request comes from the maiden herself!” insisted the red-head as she gathered herself and stood taller--nearly equal to his own large height.  
  
“The silver,” emphasized Sandor.  
  
She then added, “Don’t you know ‘tis a custom to take a whore’s maidenblood while blindfolded? We find it makes things rather interesting!”  
  
The red-headed whore then quite literally pounced him, tied the blindfold expertly around his eyes and then pushed him into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.  
  
Almost immediately Sandor expected a shake down.  
  
“Seven Hells!” swore Sandor, which was replied by a squeak—a nearly girlish squeak coming from not too far in front of him.  
  
Desirous to not be taken unawares by whatever men obviously lay in wait beyond whore, Sandor reached to remove the blindfold, but before he could do so, he’s lips were met by those of a woman’s.  
  
It was a fervent, desperate, but yet sweet kiss. One which tasted sweeter the more he had and soon his hands had found themselves down from about his shoulders to about the woman kissing him. He felt her body—she was much shorter than him, but then most women were—the red-headed woman had been the exception to this being a big but alluring woman.  
  
But this girl—no, woman—her breasts were far too full to be just a mere girl, and yet her skin was so smooth and silken as much as Conhur’s had been as a newborn babe. She let out a guttural groan of lusty pleasure as he moved his hands gently up to her bare breasts and massaged them the way the red-headed whore had shown him to please herself.  
  
This woman kissing him now was almost like what he imagined Helena to be like in those treacherous dreams he’d been having lately that left him a mess in the morning. At first he recoiled from the idea, but soon found that idea of imagining that he was slowly teasing Helena as he slowly descended his right hand to her groin and carefully rubbed it so that in an instant she paused in their kissing so that she could groan in a kind of ecstatic pleasure, writhing deeper into his grasp.  
  
He could just imagine her small body curled up in his—her inky blue eyes wide with pleasure, and her mouth ready to be kissed by him again.  
  
He was kissing the woman once again before he realized that he was beginning to imagine the woman as Helena.  
  
His clothes began to be taken off at this point. First his sword, then his breeches, then his doublet, and lastly his shirt.  
  
As he helped tear the shirt up and over his head his hand brushed once again over the blindfold and he considered taking it off—but decided against it. To take it off would end the illusion that this woman was Helena, and with that removed Sandor wasn’t sure he could continue. This would be the closest he would ever get to having the one woman he wanted, but would never allow himself to have—and so he kept the blindfold on.  
  
He stepped out of his boots—which likely stood tall above the mess his breeches and small clothes had fallen into on the floor, and then he felt himself being directed to somewhere—a bed, which they melted into and began the true course of the evening.  
  
The woman was indeed a virgin—he felt that obviously enough—and she fumbled awkwardly in attending to his pleasures. But imagining he was explaining these things to Helena, he was a slow and gentle teacher. When he climaxed for the first time within her, he called out Helena’s name as he imagined her washed in the sensual pleasures she would forever deny herself as a Septa. They went for several rounds more, taking turns—eager to try as many ways to have this union as could be had, before exhaustion at long last claim Sandor.  
  
He woke up to the early sun’s light shining upon his face. Sometime in his sleep his blindfold had been removed. He looked about the room but any sign of the woman was missing—as though she had never been there at all and he had only slept with a figment of his mind. The only sign that a woman had ever been there at all came when he stumbled over to his clothes—which had been folded nice and neatly on a nearby chair with his sword placed by it.  
  
 _A whore who folds… she’ll lose that skill soon enough…_  
  
He returned to his keep in time for the morning meal. The last meal he and Arthur would share before heading north. Had this been a few years prior  
  
Conhur was quite contrite compared to the previous night, and ate everything put before in a kind of somber sadness.  
  
Arthur looked at him with a frown upon his face?  
  
Helena was the only one it seemed who was in anything resembling a good mood, like him, but that did not last long after he engaged her in conversation.  
  
“It won’t be long now until you are at a convent,” commented Sandor.  
  
“Auntie is leaving too?!” exclaimed Conhur in worried disbelief.  
  
Helena seemed taken aback by his words, before asking, “How long is it until Lord Tyrion comes of age?”  
  
“A few moons… I don’t fucking know for certain,” answered Sandor.  
  
“You plan on being gone that long?” she asked.  
  
“One never knows how long a trip truly takes. I have a bloody letter for you to give to Lord Tyrion, should he come around while I’m gone. Give it to him and he will arrange for whatever means you need to get to whatever Sept of your choice.”  
  
“You would still have me leave?” she asked.  
  
“I would not keep you from your lifelong dream a moon longer than necessary,” answered Sandor honestly. He was rather in a mood to be a bit more open after last night…  
  
“I—I see…” answered Helena. She said nothing else for the remainder of the meal—in fact she seemed rather put out, which confused Sandor. Hadn’t she said when they first had been forced together that she had always dreamed of becoming a Septa? So why now that she was on the verge of getting everything that she wanted would she  
  
Conhur was distraught at the thought of Helena leaving, and for the remainder of the meal was even more apologetic, promising to be a good boy if she didn’t leave.  
  
“You’re cooking is wonderful. I didn’t mean it!” insisted Conhur.  
  
“She’s not leaving now, pup,” stated Sandor.  
  
But the boy would only be consoled by Helena’s hand as he clung to her and nuzzled against her in desperate plea to keep her.  
  
When Sandor left the table with Arthur to saddle his horse, Arthur stopped him just outside of the small hall and said, “Spend some time with the boy, I’ll ready our horses.”  
  
And so Sandor returned to the hall to find his nephew still being comforted by  
  
“I don’t want nuncle to leave!” insisted Conhur.  
  
What Helena said in response, shocked Sandor.  
  
“Neither do I, my little pup,” answered Helena.  
  
Sandor cleared his throat and Conhur, aware of his presence went running to him and begged him to stay. Slightly embarrassed by the sight, but not enough to remove his clingy nephew, Sandor suggested they take a walk outside. There Sandor said that with him leaving for a short while that he, Conhur, would have to protect his Auntie from any bad men that might be lurking about. At hearing this, his nephew steeled himself once again—gone were the tears, replaced with iron determination.  
  
“Murchadh can help too?” asked Conhur earnestly.  
  
“Aye, and all the fucking guardsmen as well, pup,” answered Sandor as he mussed Conhur’s hair up.  
  
Taking his leave of Helena, who had changed back into her loose fitting clothes once again, Sandor was urged by her to give her brother her love. In an instant Sandor was reminded that Helena was sister to the vile man who called himself “good” brother. In the years that had since passed, Sandor had somehow forgotten that fact.  
  
“Take care… my lady,” answered Sandor roughly.  
  
And he and Arthur had soon departed. Along the trip he tried to forget the promise that Helena had bid him—of giving her love to her brother. No, Helena could not be sister to that… fiend who had taken Calena. She was too kind and good to be so. And so the better Sandor thought of Helena, the blacker he thought of his “good” brother, and the easier it became to imagine the man’s mistreatment of his own sister. No, Ser Lymond Vikary would pay for what he had done to his family—of that Sandor was positive.  
  
Upon arrival at Boarshead Hall, Sandor felt his blood rushing through his veins. It was all planned out—from the moment of his arrival he would face his “good” brother, meet his eyes—take off his gauntlet and throw it down upon his feet and then the battle would begin.  
  
Boarshead Hall was a small keep—not much more impressive than Clegane Keep. It sat atop a small hill at the beginning of the foothills of the Western Mountains. It was not too far from the River Road, and afforded a good strategic position to fire a volley of arrows upon any army thinking of sacking Casterly Rock and Lannisport from the northeast. But unlike Clegane Keep it had high stone walls surrounding it.  
  
Much to Sandor’s delight his “good” brother rode out of his keep to meet them, likely in order to greet them and then escort them inside. What was shocking was the complete lack of guards the man traveled the short distance from his gate without. His casualness would be his ruin. It allowed Sandor to size up his “good” brother. Although he was still quite assuredly well built, Sandor smirked, seeing that he seemed to have added some weight in addition to the muscles he had had previously. Likely the man had considered himself safe and was in the process of growing fat and lazy. He didn’t deserve Calena—no of that Sandor was sure. When the man had dismounted, Sandor did much the same and when he went to embrace him, the man was started to discover that Sandor had thrown down his gauntlet at the fattening knight’s feet.  
  
“Sandor—what are—” began Arthur.  
  
“I challenge you, Ser Lymond Vikary, to a fucking fight!” proclaimed Sandor  
  
For a moment all was still. In Sandor’s imagination he’d envisioned at this point the demon that was his “good” brother would draw his sword and duel would begin. Instead he responded in a way Sandor had not in a million years anticipated. He laughed.  
  
“Oh, Sandor, your sister has told me of how fond you are of japes—but this!”  
  
Sandor was infuriated.  
  
 _He still thinks me a little boy… big mistake._  
  
And he drew steel—suddenly the expression on Ser Lymond’s face was  
  
“Enough of this silly jape—” began Arthur as he dismounted his horse.  
  
“Draw you sword!” warned Sandor to Ser Lymond, raising his sword to strike, but before he could swing, Sandor felt another sword sit atop of his, and Sandor turned to see Arthur standing there, with his sword drawn and a determined look on his face.  
  
“Put away your weapon!” commanded Arthur as though they were still in the practice yard.  
  
How dare Arthur! It was partly his fault that it came to this in the first place! Sandor felt fury rage through him and he dueled Arthur—this time with live steel. Arthur made several moves to disarm him, while Sandor, not wishing for Ser Lymond to take advantage and recover from the shock too well, pulled the sleight that Arthur had fallen for months ago—once again Arthur Dayne had fallen for it and to incapacitate Arthur, Sandor brought his clenched fist down on top of Arthur, causing the former Sword of the Morning to fall to the ground clutching his head with a groan. He wouldn’t be out of fighting form not for too long, so Sandor took his sword that he dropped and tossed it away from them to give him and Ser Lymond even more time.  
  
Ser Lymond seemed to be in even greater shock than before—so much so that he handn’t drawn any sword at all.  
  
“Fight me!” roared Sandor as he came at Ser Lymond—aiming to just barely miss so as to provoke Lymond to draw steel. But Lymond only scurried away at the last second. This action was repeated  
  
“I’ll fight you with my bare hands if that’s what it takes!” proclaimed Sandor as he then tacked the shorter Lymond and began to grapple with him. The man was somehow still in shock and still refused to fight Sandor. And that only enraged Sandor even more. And so he began to punch him in the face—again to provoke him to fight.  
  
“This is for stealing Calena!” he proclaimed with a square punch to Lymond’s jaw.  
  
“And this one for forcing her to write lies!” shouted Sandor as his fist met Lymond’s right eye met Sandor’s fist.  
  
“And for fucking raping her!” roared Sandor as he broke Lymond’s nose.  
  
Suddenly he felt something small jump upon his back and grab at his arm.  
  
“You get off my daddy!” cried a small voice.  
  
One of the rape seed he’d forced from Calena, no doubt. Sandor tried to buck the little brat, but it held on tightly—even going so far as to bite and claw him with sharper than he expected baby teeth. Sandor tried to grapple with the small weight upon his back and neck gently—only for Calena’s sake would he tolerate this product of rape. The grappling continued for longer than Sandor wished, only to be broken up by a shout.  
  
“Sandor! Get off him!” cried a voice that Sandor well recognized—and he froze and turned to look up to see Calena infuriated like the day Sandor had challenged her about Murchadh. She was running down the path towards them, quite a feat Sandor realized as he saw his sister was once again big with Lymond’s rapeseed. Then suddenly she stopped herself when her eyes saw his. Even at this distance, Sandor could see wide-eyed fear in her eyes.  
  
 _Damn Lymond!_  
  
But what she said next changed everything.  
  
“Sandor Vikary, come here this instant!” demanded Calena.  
  
 _Sandor… Vikary?_  
  
And now it was Sandor’s turn for shock  
  
“He’s hurting papa!” whined the small weight on his back.  
  
“Come here, now!” urged Calena fervidly.  
  
And Sandor felt the weight release from his back and he saw a mop of brown hair much like Calena’s attached to a small chubby body of a very young child run to his mother’s side. Once her son was safe behind her, Calena then strode determinedly towards Sandor and Lymond, and the still groaning Arthur. She stopped just short of Sandor and Lymond and stood there silent for a moment.  
  
When at last she spoke, she said with a pained emotion to her voice quietly without looking at him, “Get off him, Sandor.”  
  
“I am off him!” whined the quite young boy from afar.  
  
But Sandor dumbly nodded and stood, backing off of Ser Lymond, expecting his sister to embrace him in a hug—her rescuer. Instead she knelt over her captor and examined his wounds as though each were as equally a blow to herself as much as it was to him.  
  
Ser Lymond tried to move when he realized it was Calena at his side, but she hushed him and added quite tenderly, “be still, my love.”  
  
 _My love?_  
  
It was then she looked at Sandor and asked, “What have you done, Sandor?” Her eyes were full of tears, and Sandor immediately felt once again as though he were the seven year old boy Gregor had forced his head into the fire.  
  
“You mean that _monster_ ’s my uncle?!” exclaimed young Sandor from afar with utter disbelief.  
  
Calena turned to her son and shouted, “You want to help your father, Sandor? Go inside and fetch the maester… now!”  
  
And after a pause to look once again at his namesake, the boy took off in the direction of the Keep.  
  
Ser Lymond tried to speak, but once again, Calena hushed him, taking off her cloak and wrapping it into a neat pillow for her husband’s head.  
  
All Sandor could do was observe in shock. Of all the possible reactions he’d imagined from Calena—this one had been the furthest from his mind.  
  
She said her say in barely a voice above a whisper, “I want you gone, Sandor.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Leave, now!” she demanded.  
  
“But—”  
  
She then turned on him, a rage in her eyes unlike any Sandor had seen before, that scared him more than anything.  
  
“Leave or Seven help me I’ll hurt you! I’ll claw out your eyes, I’ll tear at your throat!” she snarled, so unlike her.  
  
“C—Calena?” he asked dumbly as though he were still a child.  
  
“Leave Sandor!” she shrieked pushing him away from her. Sandor tried to hold on to her arms, but she slipped them out of her grasp and backed away.  
  
“Get!” she called.  
  
And all Sandor could do was stare dumbly at her. But the distance, she apparently took for being enough, as she then turned her attentions to the now recovering Arthur. As he had seemed to have gained control of himself he suddenly found himself slapped by Calena.  
  
“What sort of knight were you? I left you my brother… and you give me a monster!” she spat.  
  
 _A monster?_  
  
“I don’t want to ever see either of you within a score of miles of here!” she decreed rashly before returning back to Ser Lymond’s side and now focusing all her attention on nursing Ser Lymond protectively.  
  
 _She… she actually loves him…_


	42. Jeyne

**JEYNE**

 

Lady Stark was the closest thing to a mother Jeyne had ever known in her young life. She taught Jeyne that to be a lady came with it responsibilities that one must rise to meet and strive to be worthy of. Lady Stark was kind to her and Raynald—sitting with her when she was ill, and listening to any story that Jeyne had to tell aptly and enthusiastically, even if it was just about how Jeyne had first seen a flower bloom, or how she found a spider’s web sprinkled with dew and drops of water shimmering in the early morning light. Lady Stark had allowed Jeyne to follow her about almost like a shadow, and as Lady Stark’s shadow Jeyne saw the importance of being a lady. A lady could tell a great many people what to do. How would the cooks know what to serve for the meals without Lady Stark? How would the maids know which beds were to be made in which rooms or which fires to have lit, without Lady Stark? Who would stitch a shirt for Raynald or darn Lord Stark’s shirts, without Lady Stark? A lady, Jeyne could see, was a very important person. And as such Jeyne up until now had wanted nothing more than to be a lady as grand and good as Lady Stark.

 

So to see her mother in spirit, if not name, to lose herself sitting by Robb’s bedside for the first few days of his sleep was confusing to say the least. She kept coming into the room where all four of the boys were laid out—all deeply asleep as the moment Jon had fallen right before her eyes at the gate of the godswood. And most disheartening of all was the sudden realization that the cooks still made the meals without Lady Stark. The maids still cleaned and prepared the rooms without her. And when little Rickon’s shirt got a tear in it when it caught on a nail, Jeyne had sewn it up for him without Lady Stark—and promised to keep it a secret so that his mother would not be so upset with him. This sudden turn of events—even in the case of only a few days showed Jeyne that mayhaps a Lady wasn’t as important a person as she had thought her to be.

 

Lord Stark seemed quieter than usual. Not that he hadn’t talked at all before, but now he didn’t even acknowledge Jeyne’s presence like he used to when entering the room Lady Stark had practically turned into her own residence as she sat a vigil by the four pale sleeping boys. Her hand firmly clasped around Robb’s, and baby Brandon’s cradle at her feet, gently being rocked by Lady Stark’s foot. Lord Stark would immediately go to Lady Stark’s side and would talk about many things—that Jeyne thought she was not supposed to hear, but she heard anyway. Like

 

To Jeyne the sight of the boys all asleep was worrisome, but mayhaps all they needed was a really long sleep—the boys were always loud at night anyway. They just needed a long sleep and then they’d wake up and be just as they had always been: loud, annoying, and sometimes a little mean. That is of course except Raynald. Good, kind, and noble Raynald. The best older brother she ever could hope for—who would defend her, notice her, and play with her… except now of course.

 

There were only two members of the Winterfell family who did not visit the chamber the boys slept in—Rickon preferred playing in the nursery and would grab her to play a new game he had invented that involved tossing things across the room and Jeyne scurrying to collect the item from wherever Rickon had sent it to. Jeyne did not mind the game so much, but found it tiring quickly.

 

The other was Den, who did not enter the chamber at all, remaining just outside it. The one time when he had tried to enter, Lady Stark had sent him from the room immediately as though he was at fault for hurting the other boys. But that did not make any sense to Jeyne. She had gone further into the godswood and had seen Den high up among the branches of the heart tree, looking rather frightened and frozen to his place. It had taken Lord Stark himself to climb up the tree and fetch Den before he willingly came down. Den couldn’t have caused them all to fall asleep, and yet Lady Stark acted as if he was somehow responsible and barred him from entering the chamber. And so he waited outside it for a large portion of the day and night, only leaving when someone insisted he eat something. Lord Stark did not agree with Lady Stark about Den at all, and they argued over the situation, Lord Stark even bringing Den into the room once, though Den fled just about as quickly as he saw Lady Stark’s glare and Lord Stark had let go of him. Jeyne did not like to hear Lord and Lady Stark arguing—which most oddly did not seem to wake the sleeping boys at all—and so she left the room, choosing to sit next to Den outside the room or running off to play with Rickon in the nursery if Den was too melancholic.

 

“Our son would not treat Den in this manner,” Jeyne heard Lord Stark say through the door.

 

“And mayhaps if he had kept a bit more distance from that child, he wouldn’t be like this at all!” rebuffed Lady Stark.

 

“Cat, they live. Luwin says there’s nothing wrong with him,” assured Lord Stark.

 

“And yet they will not wake when I call their names or shake them. Don’t you find it _odd_ that all the children in the godswood became like this except for _him_? And when he’s ordered to tell what happened he continues to remain silent.”

 

“He’s frightened,” said Lord Stark.

 

“He’s feeling guilty, and only someone who knows they’ve done something wrong feels that way,” countered Lady Stark quite firmly.

 

It was at this that Jeyne felt Den quiver next to her and he looked like he was about to cry—though tears never came to him. Den had always been sweet to Jeyne—picking berries from the places she couldn’t reach and sharing them with her. Den had the kindest heart, and it wasn’t fair the way Lady Stark was treating him. He was just as much a brother to Robb as Jon was—Jon’s name was Snow as well, and he was Robb’s brother. Mayhaps it had something to do with how he looked. Den did stick out amongst the pack of children, being the only one with white-blond hair. But unlike Jon he had blue eyes like Robb did. It was a mess, of that Jeyne was sure of, one which was hurting Den… and Jeyne did not like messes which hurt other people. So she hugged Den, who even though he was bigger and older than her, accepted it.

 

No, she would have to explain to Lady Stark just what it was that she was doing to poor Den. Lady Stark was simply mistaken, once she knew what she was doing wrong, surely she would fix the mistake.

 

On the sixth day of the boys’ sleep Lady Jonelle Glover came to call while she was visiting her father and her brother, Cley, who was a few moons younger than her daughter Robetta. Jeyne had been partied with visits with Cley Cerwyn who was fast becoming a friend of Rickon’s, but this was the first time that Lady Jonelle had come to visit, and she came also with her youngest and her son of a few moons, Brandon Glover. When meeting with Lord Stark in the courtyard she had expressed a desire to meet with Lady Stark—whom Jeyne took to be a friend of hers. However when this was determined as unlikely, Lord Stark offered her and her company the chance to freshen up and stay for dinner before returning to her husband’s keep deep in the Wolfswood. Lady Jonelle was ever so gracious upon the offer and Jeyne was introduced not that long thereafter to Robetta, the first girl close to her age that Jeyne had met beyond the few servant and smallfolk girls in Winterfell and about Wintertown, and meeting her was like a breath of fresh air that Jeyne hadn’t known she’d never tasted. Robetta was a pretty girl for being only three. She had long red hair quite unlike her mother’s that she kept in a neat braid, but she had her mother’s dark brown eyes. Together the two girls enjoyed one another’s company for nearly the afternoon, with Jeyne eagerly showing her what toys she had, and running about the castle corridors when there were no servants in sight to scold them. Eventually they came to the corridor outside of the boys’ sickroom just before the evening meal was to be called. Den was there as was to be expected and he looked at Jeyne and Robetta with a curious glance.

 

Introductions were made by Jeyne quite quickly, and Den, Jeyne noticed had gone quite as red in the cheeks as Robetta’s hair upon meeting her. He did not speak, but that was to be expected, but Robetta asked why.

 

“I don’t know why. Den just doesn’t,” was Jeyne’s simply reply, to which Den grew even redder in response.

 

Robetta seemed to accept this answer and the evening meal was called.

 

Through the evening meal Lady Jonelle seemed to gab on and on about every little detail of her visit to her father’s to Lord Stark and how he adored his new grandson. Robetta meanwhile ate quietly unless prompted by her mother to speak as a witness to one of the many events. Jeyne had decided to sit next to Robetta so they could whisper things to one another. One of Robetta’s favorite topics was asking questions about Den, who with the empty seats available, sat across from Robetta.

 

Robetta, Lady Jonelle, and little Brandon Glover all left in the morning, much to Jeyne’s discontent. However they had hardly left Winterfell before a servant came running down to the courtyard calling “Lord Stark!”

 

“What is it, Lyra?” asked Lord Stark motioning for Lyra to come closer.

 

“The boys… they’re all awake. Lady Stark bid me come and find you immediately. She wanted you to speak with them… alone,” answered Lyra.

 

Lord Stark seemed to let go a sigh of relief that he had been holding, before looking concerned again at Lyra. Jeyne was quite happy to hear this and eagerly wished to see Raynald, as much as Den seemed eager to speak with Jon and Robb, Jeyne figured by how his somber face had lit up at that moment.

 

They then followed Lyra back towards the Great Keep but at its doors, Lord Stark stopped them, as if noticing Jeyne and Den were following only at that moment.

 

“Jeyne, Den. I know you wish to see them, and you will.”

 

“But Lord Stark—” began Jeyne.

 

“It will only be a few minutes at most. I’ll send Lyra down to fetch you two when they’re ready. Remember, they’ve been asleep for seven days, and likely need some time to recover themselves.”

 

“From sleeping?!” exclaimed Jeyne.

 

“I’ll send Lyra down when they’re ready,” was Lord Stark’s reply an Jeyne and Den were left on the outside of the Great Keep.

 

“All we seem to do anymore is wait,” grumbled Jeyne as she and Den leaned against the stones to the Great Keep.

 

Time seemed to pass quite slowly as they waited for Lyra’s return. Eventually Jeyne grew bored of leaning against the Keep’s walls and pulled him into exploring the older part of the castle where the lichfield was located. The midday meal soon was called for, with both Jeyne and Den not too eagerly attending. Lord and Lady Stark were yet to appear as they began to eat after waiting for either one’s appearance, which only worried them further. It wasn’t until they came close to finishing the meal did Lord Stark appear to eat and he seemed rather disturbed.

 

“Lord Stark, can we see them?” asked Jeyne, at which point Lord Stark, who seemed to have been lost in thought until that moment seemed to acknowledge her.

 

He answered distantly, “Aye… after you both finish your meals.”

 

Jeyne had never seen Den stuff the rest of his plate in his mouth so quickly before. He then swallowed jumped up and rushed out the room, with Jeyne—deciding not to be left behind by too much abandoning the remainder of her apple slices before saying she wasn’t so hungry and running off herself after Den.

 

Den obviously got to the room first. Lady Stark it seemed had ended her vigil and Maester Luwin was examining Jon at the moment. They all looked fine, to Jeyne’s eyes and she rushed over to Raynald the moment their eyes locked, jumped onto the bed and hugged him fiercely.

 

At first nothing seemed odd or out of place, Theon was annoying as always, complaining that she had landed on his legs, Raynald was calming her down as she asked questions a mile a minute, Robb was enthusiastically talking to Den, and Jon, once Maester Luwin was through with him joined Robb’s conversation. She didn’t understand what could have shocked Lord Stark so much the boys were just like they had always been.

 

That is until Raynald asked Jeyne “Did you hear that?”  


“Hear what?” asked Jeyne.

 

Theon only looked to Raynald as if to say without saying, that he had heard it.

 

“That,” emphasized Raynald as if he had just heard something rather loud and obvious repeat once again.

 

Jeyne looked at Theon and Raynald in confusion.

 

“I don’t think she can hear it,” answered Theon after a moment’s silence.

 

“Hear what?” she repeated.

 

Raynald looked as if he were about to say something, but Theon gave Raynald a look which seemed to make Raynald reconsider what he was about to say before finally saying rather unconvincingly, “Nothing, it must have been my imagination.”

 

As she watched Theon and Raynald, and Jon and Robb as well, they all seemed concerned about something, but were holding their tongues about whatever it was. And that sense of oddness of hearing things and seeing things that Jeyne didn’t or couldn’t only grew as the days passed. Theon’s pranks stopped completely, and the four boys were often in the godswood though not only to play but to speak amongst the trees as well—as though there were others around them.

 

To be quite honest it frightened Jeyne a bit, and at first she thought that it was one big joke that they were playing on her as thought up by Theon, until of course she realized that Den too was on the outs as well.

 

One morning Robb burst into Jeyne’s morning instruction on memorizing the houses of the Westerlands with Lady Stark and said, “I know the answer!”

 

“Robb Stark! Are you a wildling or are you a lordling!” chastised Lady Stark, as she put aside the book of houses which she had been reading from.

 

“But mother—” began Robb.

 

“That’s no way for the heir of Winterfell to enter a room,” scolded Lady Stark.

 

“But I know the answer!” Robb proudly proclaimed.

 

“What answer?” asked Lady Stark exasperatedly.

 

Robb grinned and said, “The Raven told me the answer to your question.”

 

Lady Stark looked perplex, “To _my_ question?”

 

“Aye, when you prayed in the godswood with Aunt Lyanna.”

 

At this Lady Stark seemed to stare oddly at Robb, before nervously saying, “Go on…”

 

Robb said quite proudly, “Balance.”

 

“Who told you this?” asked Lady Stark.

 

Robb answered simply, “The Raven.”

 

“And the Raven is the pet name for…” urged Lady Stark.

 

“He appears as a raven, so we call him the Raven.”

 

“Who is _he_?” asked Lady Stark.

 

“I don’t know but he appears like a raven with three eyes. He also said to tell you that the next one will be a girl,” answered Robb.

 

At this Lady Stark seemed to not know what to say, and Robb, having delivered his message gave a little bow to Jeyne and then left the room as quickly as he had entered it.


	43. Arthur IV

**ARTHUR**  
  
Sandor had fled on his horse after Calena had finished with them, leaving Arthur to regain his senses next to a rather irate Calena and her recovering husband, Ser Lymond. Upon doing so to some level of control, he was met with a glare from Calena—even though the edges of her form seemed to be a bit blurry still.  
  
“I told you to leave,” growled Calena the moment after he had managed to pick himself up.  
  
“My lady. I had no idea that your brother—” he began, his ears ringing dully.  
  
“Do not lie to me!” snapped Calena.  
  
“I resent that. I have not lied to you and I will _never_ do so!” he retorted back.  
  
To this Calena turned her eyes to the gate, seeing a few guards and servants rushing forth at that moment. Arthur knew he’d have little time before he would have to leave in order to find Sandor before he became lost.  
  
“I will take my leave of you for now, my lady, but know that I tried to stop your brother. Ask your lord husband if you doubt me. I will return with your brother and by the Seven I hope to see this mess sorted out.” With that Arthur mounted his horse and rode off in the direction Sandor had on his mount.  
  
As he rode off, Arthur heard echoes of brother's final words to him before banishing him from Starfall. Although Aster's chastisement had been for Rhaegar, his mind now twisted them to have meaning for Sandor.  
  
 _‘You could have convinced him to stop what he was doing. But you didn’t.’_  
  
 _Convince Sandor? How could I have convinced him when he did not confide this in me? Gods... did I ever give him a reason to confide this in me?_  
  
 _‘You sat by and did nothing!’_  
  
 _And what was I supposed to do? Force him to speak—if a horse does not wish to drink, leading him to water will do no good. And as such now he’s gone and…_  
  
And as Arthur’s grey speckled mount cleared a small hedge, it suddenly it hit him. Sandor was likely to be in the same situation at the end of this as he was with his family.  
  
 _If he broods in the forest only after having lost his sister, what happens if he loses more than her?_  
  
His own realization that he had had at the end of Aster's chastisement suddenly returned with a vengeance unlike any of Aster's words had held.  
  
 _‘Death would have been the honorable option…’_  
  
Arthur urged his horse to gallop faster—less he was too late.  
  
Sandor had headed towards the forested foothills that swept up into the larger Western mountains to the east, and it wasn’t long before Arthur had managed to find the trail that the young man upon horseback had come barreling through the trees of the nearby forest. Arthur kept his eyes and ears alert to the slightest of movements or the most distinctive of sounds—his recovery nearly complete with only the slightest bit of discomfort. Eventually he came upon Sandor’s black horse, Warrior, taking what was likely a well deserved drink from a small shallow but swiftly moving creek. Sandor should not be too far—and as the ringing Arthur’s ears abated, he then heard what sounded like the snap of something being thrown and landing with a thud on the nearby ground. He followed the sound to find Sandor sitting sitting against the trunk of a tree with several pebbles at his feet which he picked up and threw pointedly at a nearby tree. Upon seeing Sandor Arthur felt a flurry of feeling. Part of him wanted to yell at Sandor for what he had done, another part was simply relieved to see Sandor alive.  
  
“So this is what you were doing in the forest all that time?” His words might have been teasing, under different circumstances, but now they were nearly flat and emotionless.  
  
“Come to wash your hands of me as well?” asked Sandor equally drained of emotion in his delivery.  
  
Arthur responded rather quickly, “No.”  
  
 _I’ve come to keep you from doing something you’re bound to regret…_  
  
Sandor scoffed and said, “She doesn’t want me near there… or you either if I heard right. And for my part… I don’t fucking blame her.”  
  
Arthur countered, “Your sister…” _was being rash, not unlike you_ “…what do you expect her to say, when she comes out expecting a friendly greeting and instead sees her brother fighting to throw her son to the ground and kneeling over her bloodied husband?”  
  
Sandor's answer was short and simple. “He took her.”  
  
“Clearly there’s more to it than that.” Arthur sighed and then continued, “Trust me when I say that you don’t want to let this rift grow any further.”  
  
“Gregor did…” commented Sandor as he threw a rather large stone that hit its mark rather distinctly.  
  
Here Arthur rebounded, “And do you really want to be like your brother?’  
  
He answered immediately, without even considering the question, “Fuck no.”  
  
Arthur’s answer was that simple, “Then don’t do what he would.”  
  
To say that Calena and the guards, as few as there were, of Boarshead Hall took their return well, would be an outright lie. Simply put the guards, saying they had orders from Lady Vikary, took them into their custody. They were disarmed and then taken to a small room—not a dungeon—off of the guardhouse next to the main gate. Clearly the room was meant as a kind of planning or meeting room of some kind for the guards. It was spare in its furnishings, but far more comfortable than a dungeon—and the room came furnished with a door that locked behind them. After being left in this room, Sandor and Arthur settled into an unspoken silent truce.  
  
A few hours later, a guard came, unlocked the door and bid for Arthur to follow him in the dim light of twilight. He was led out into the cool air of the evening, crossing the wide courtyard to enter the main keep attached to what Arthur could tell was the largest Great Hall he’d ever seen built for a family of a landed knight. He was led up a few stairs to a room, obviously Ser Lymond’s solar, where Calena stood behind her husband’s desk. She seemed far from the woman who had in the heat of the moment slapped and urged him to get as far as he could from Boarshead Hall. She seemed to have gained control of herself, and avoided looking Arthur in the eyes when speaking to him.  
  
“Thank you, Tylot, Return in an hour,” bid Calena and the guard left the room at her dismissal.  
  
She did not speak immediately after Tylot the guard had left. But when she did, she said, “I owe you an apology, Master Arthur.”  
  
“I trust your husband is not too hurt?” he countered, taking her off guard.  
  
She answered honestly, from what Arthur could tell. “Aye, but Maester Faryl feels he shouldn’t exert himself this evening.”  
  
 _So I am to be fetched like a dog to be thanked for doing what I already told you I did, then?_  
  
But Arthur was caught off guard by the fact that she asked a question next, instead of laying on gratitude. “You knew nothing of Sandor’s… madness?” asked Calena with some difficulty.  
  
“If you’re asking whether or not I knew he planned to challenge your husband on sight—”  
  
“Challenge?” asked Calena.  
  
Arthur nodded and added, “Sandor tossed down his gauntlet upon seeing your husband.”  
  
This seemed to be news to Calena, but Arthur did not let her realization interrupt what he wanted to say, “I did not know that. I know he still harbored some anger towards him for… well as he put it, “taking you away”, but I did not realize—”  
  
“That he was becoming more like Gregor?” asked Calena pointedly.  
  
“I have only ever had the pleasure of meeting your eldest brother twice in my life, and the one time did not leave such a favorable impression upon me. Even still, I would say quite certainly that Sandor is not anywhere close to him.”  
  
 _At least not yet… leave him nothing to lose… Gods, I don’t even want to think on it…_  
  
“He gave a stunning performance of Gregor to his namesake and Ly—my husband,” retorted Calena rather quickly before taking a heavy breath filled with what Arthur heard to be conflicted emotions. She swallowed and closed her eyes before continuing, “Once… just after Gregor had returned from the Rock… he beat our mother because she didn’t serve the meal he wanted. I watched as father simply stood by and did nothing as Gregor beat her face into a bloody mess. Later when Gregor burned Sandor’s face, again I saw father do nothing.” She took another swallow, to hold back her welling emotions before continuing, “When Lord Stafford told me if I didn’t agree to both marriages—not just my own—but Sandor’s as well, that he’d take Sandor back to the Rock… all I could think was how the Rock changed Gregor into that... monster. I couldn’t let that happen to Sandor too I just couldn’t. I thought if he stayed with you that then things would turn out differently… that Sandor wouldn’t—” but her emotions got the best of her before she could finish her thoughts.  
  
“I think you should speak with him,” was Arthur’s reply.  
  
Calena looked at him as though he were suggesting she brave the deserts of Dorne on the hottest day of summer.  
  
He continued, “Truly. I cannot speak to what exactly was on his mind when he threw down that gauntlet, but surely speaking with him about it—”  
  
She interrupted his plea, “It is almost an hour, Master Arthur. I have rooms prepared for your stay. My husband will wish to thank you in the morning himself.”  
  
“And Sandor?” urged Arthur.  
  
She seemed troubled before answering, “He will stay where he is for the moment.”  
  
He knew his answer hardly a second before he said it, “Then if it is fine with you, I would like to return to him.”  
  
She began, “Master Arthur, did you not hear what I—”  
  
Arthur interrupted her, “Aye, I did. If you will not speak with him this night, then I would feel it my obligation to not abandon him.”  
  
 _I won’t make that mistake again._  
  
Calena sighed and said, “As you wish…”


	44. Jason II

**JASON**  
  
“We live in an age of _moral_ decline!” protested an old man from across the common room of the Inn. The man was completely silver haired, but had not yet given up his body to the fragility of an advanced age. He sat at a small round table with three other men of various ages. Upon his doublet was a blue and white vair with a golden antler on each side of the column of buttons in between.  
  
“Hear, hear!” chorused one of his drinking companions, who wore a blue hooded cape up and sat facing away from Jason, while the other, an old and doddering looking Septon meekly lifted his glass from what Jason could see in the dim candle light of the room. Sawane meanwhile was disciplining his son Harren for trying to sneak food under the table to a hound which presumably belonged to the innkeeper. Their travel companion, Harys Arryn—who had reluctantly agreed to leave his interests in Seaguard to the management of his wife Jeyne—was out of the common room for a moment taking a piss in a chamber pot to be dumped in the alleyway.  
  
“Not this again, uncle…” groaned the youngest man, whose dark eyes had been lingering on the serving woman who had recently come by to refill their mugs full of house ale. He was also dressed in similar attire to that of his house elder.  
  
  
“You are of this younger generation, one which neither knows nor cares for true morality. Take love, for instance! What is love to you but what can be found in a whore’s bed? When I or any man of my age speaks of love, we mean of course the love of a woman who bids her noble knight off to battle black dragons and other such villains… a pure, chaste affection held from a respectable distance. That, nephew is true virtuous love! And what does your generation have instead? Whores and wine… you’d drink these Seven Kingdoms into the ground if it weren’t for my peers keeping the country together!” insisted the old knight as he took a swig of his ale.  
  
Jason took note that the young man had not taken to his refilled mug yet.  
  
“It’s happened before and it will happen again. Whenever a culture becomes too focused on revisiting past glories and past culture, it is most certainly in decline! What do you think Valyria was before the Doom? Why do you think the Targaryens took to Dragonstone in the first place, Jarman?” challenged the old man.  
  
“Prophesy?” rejoined the young man  
  
“That childish nonsense again? No! Valyria was a stinking pit of vice, immorality, and degradation! The Targaryens could sense that there was a better way of living—but did not know it for themselves, so they left Valyria and came to Westeros, where the Faith eventually showed them the right way to live.”  
  
“The _Andal_ way!” chimed in the hooded member of their group. The old antlered knight gave a good chuckle and knocked his mug against the hooded figure’s mug before downing the rest of it.  
  
“And the incest, uncle?” countered the bemused younger kin as he took note of his uncle’s having finished his ale.  
  
The old knight puffed himself up as he proclaimed, “It was a vice of Valyria that the family could not shake themselves of. And ultimately, that vice was the cause of their destruction. It wasn’t Aegon the Unlikely or Mad Aerys who killed the Targaryen Dynasty, it was the Seven’s judgment on them for bringing back such an… unnatural and lascivious practice after having finally seen the light and retiring it years before.”  
  
“Is the Targaryen truly dynasty ended when we have a man who uses his claim to the Iron Throne through his Targaryen grandmother?” questioned the nephew.  
  
“Has the man taken the Targaryen name?” hammered the elder knight.  
  
It was at this point the quiet Septon now spoke in a quivering but eloquent manner, “Although the King is technically a continuation of the old dynasty, his new actions and reforms, of which we were discussing, clearly indicate he considers himself and his kin a new dynasty having already ousted the old.”  
  
“Aye, take for instance his treatment of the Faith—were this Baelor the Blessed, why this matter with these damnable heretics would have ended long ago. But no, our King prefers to fuck the Great Northern whore, and revive traditions of a people who mostly live in squalor because they lost to the superiority of our ancestors.”  
  
“Uncle, we are not at Antlers!” protested the young man warily, quickly looking about for anyone paying any mind to their conversation. Jason managed to avert his eyes in time.  
  
“Oh hush—no good Andal would report on another!” dismissed the elder.  
  
The nephew grilled, “Calling the Queen a whore?”  
  
The old knight retorted immediately, “Well she is! Why do you think they waited a year before she married the King? To make sure the realm knew that his heir wasn’t Rhaegar’s… I tell you, it was a sad state of affairs when the King… lowered himself to marry the Great Northern whore and allied himself with that Bloody Wolf. And she’ll drag the Seven Kingdoms back into barbarity. I’m convinced this ‘Faith of One’ nonsense is a Northern ploy. Get us to fight amongst ourselves, and then they can take over! Next she’ll tell the King to proclaim that all iron should be melted down and that we should all wield bronze weapons—”  
  
“Followed shortly thereafter with a banning of the Seven and a mass planting of weirwood trees across the South!” interjected the silent Septon in his rusty pipe organ of a voice.  
  
“You’re _drunk_ , uncle,” dismissed the young man, clearly giving up trying to talk sense into the old knight.  
  
“Well, there’s still one shining hope in all of this,” rebounded the unidentifiable companion.  
  
“Eh? And what is that?” questioned the old knight blearily. It was at this point the Seven saw fit for Harys to stumble back into the common room. Compared to Denys, the young middle aged merchant was quite different. They both had the distinctive Arryn blond hair, but beyond that Harys was slightly clumsy and generally came across as a harmless bumbling fool—but Jason knew better than to fall for that trick. How else had the merchant established himself at such a young age than to cast such a harmless demeanor about him to hide his crafty mind? It was then that Harys stopped and cast his eyes upon the group Jason had been watching.  
  
“Noble Andal houses in the King’s absence can set the example of how things should be. House Arryn for instance—” began the hooded companion.  
  
“Morys!” exclaimed Harys.  
  
“Harys…” replied the hooded figure.  
  
“It’s been a while, cousin!”  
  
“Indeed…” answered Morys, clearly not as enthused about renewing acquaintances as Harys was.  
  
“Fancy meeting you here…” said Harys with a little too much amazement.  
  
Morys glibly answered, “It is relatively easy to meet someone you know at an inn if one knows enough people—and it’s _large_ enough to fit them.”  
  
Harys pretended that the slight went over his head, Jason could tell, but he now spoke to Morys’ companions, “Forgive me, for intruding but I haven’t seen my cousin Morys in… oh what has it been, five years?”  
  
“I wish it were longer,” muttered Morys.  
  
Harys at long last introduced himself to Morys’ companions, “I am Harys Arryn, of House Arryn of Gulltown.”  
  
“I could tell that from your cloak,” retorted the old antler knight.  
  
“And what are you doing here in King’s Landing?” asked Morys  
  
Jason knew before he could even say anything that Harys would be impossible to stop speaking, it had been the pattern at so many an inn by this point. To Harys’ credit he said nothing about Sawane’s origins as an Ironborn, nor any hint about the piece of wood that had been found, but everything else was open game, and as such Jason found himself pulled into a conversation he would have preferred to remain an observer of.  
  
“So you wish to try your hand at crossing the Sunset Sea?” asked the old man in armor.  
  
Jason delivered the line Harys had been having him test out, “A quicker trade route to the Saffron Straits and the Jade Sea would bring the price of spices down—a trade route for the stomach to ease all our indigestion.”  
  
At this Morys sniggered in response, but the young antler knight, Jarman, if Jason recalled the name he’d heard right, leaned forward with interest.  
  
The old Septon wheezed, “It’s unholy, that’s what it is! To go where the Seven have not bid us come would be in direct violation of every migration the Andals have had since the beginning…”  
  
The old “Westeros has problems enough of its own here at home, we need fine Andal men such as yourself here at home, showing these damnable First Men how to live a proper life—not off throwing your lives away into unforgiving waters.”  
  
“I’ll give you this much, cousin, you and Lord Mallister at least have your _gut_ instincts in the right place,” laughed Morys.  
  
“Haven’t you ever looked out to the setting sun as it dips down beneath the horizon and wondered what lays out there to the West of the Sunset Sea?” questioned Jason.  
  
“Well, sure, but that does not mean one goes looking for it!” retorted the old knight weakly.  
  
“Well, that’s where we disagree,” answered Jason. Feeling the conversation at an end, he gave his leave of the men and returned to Sawane and young Harren so that they could retire to their room for the evening. Harys must have done the same for not a moment later was he by Jason’s side and his hot irritating breath whispered in his ear.  
  
“Good, you sounded convincing that time. You’ll have Qarlton Chelsted convinced, easily,” muttered Harys in his ear as they returned to their seats.  
  
  
They returned to their room with three shabby little beds and were about to retire for the evening when Jason heard a knock at their door. Jason, being the one of  
  
“Lord Mallister.” questioned the young antlered knight from earlier. He was standing at the door and looked relieved to see him.  
  
“Aye… Jarman?” asked Jason.  
  
“May I come in? I would like to speak with you further about your planned trip.”  
  
“Who is it?” asked Harys as he struggled to pull off his boots for the evening.  
  
“Jarman Buckwell,” announced Jason, as he let the young knight enter, the young man carrying something bound in leather underneath his arm. Jason closed the door behind him.  
  
“What is your business?” asked Sawane immediately, standing up from the small bed he and Harren were to share.  
  
“This evening, you all spoke of sailing west… to reach the Jade Sea from round the back way?” clarified Jarman.  
  
“Aye,” answered Harys.  
  
Jarman continued, “I have something that I’ve drawn that might assist you.”  
  
It was then that the young Buckwell opened up his leather bound object to reveal a collection of papers, sketches of various sorts of things—some of which were fantastical to Jason’s imagination, but one of which were the rough sketches for a ship unlike any  
  
“I thought you might find this idea of mine particularly interesting…”  
  
“How large would that ship be?” gawked an amazed Harys as he along with everyone else in the room crowded around Jarman and his sketches.  
  
“To carry the weight of three masts like that… quite large… you would need a great deal of lumber,” commented Sawane.  
  
“Aye, they’d be larger, but likely faster than your average galley—what with the extra sails, and they could carry more supplies in their cargo hold. I once built a small one out of sticks and it was faster than the small galley I made,” answered Jarman.  
  
“Where did you come up with the idea for this?” asked Jason  
  
Jarman continued, “I’ve always rather liked to draw… and I wondered what could make a ship go faster—obviously more sails, but in order to have more sails you’d need more masts, more masts means a larger ship to support the weight of such a ship. My uncle never saw the practical use in it.”  
  
“I’d say if you could get a ship like this built, and then the time to travel across the Sunset Sea could be more than halved, at the very least,” estimated Sawane.  
  
Jason agreed, but saw the eager look in young Jarman’s eyes and immediately saw that the newly man grown wished to see his idea take shape. For after all, if it proved to do well enough for itself then he could likely sell the idea to the King and make a fortune. And so Jarman Buckwell was added to the petition along with his new ship design.  
  
The next morning they called upon the Red Keep and asked to meet with Lord Chelsted. The interview was over nearly as soon as it had begun.  
  
“Besides the patent, which I see no issue to deny, what exactly are the expenses you petition the King to cover?” asked Lord Chelsted, his nose firmly in the document that they had handed, speaking to them without bothering to meet their eye as he sat behind his desk.  
  
This question Sawane answered himself, “The building of two additional ships for supplies and the cost of those supplies needed for the voyage.”  
  
Lord Chelsted leafed through the proposal document.  
  
“I am sorry to say gentlemen that at this time the crown cannot undertake such an expense as what you’re proposing. I fail to see how your little venture will help us reach the Jade Sea or the lands beyond it any quicker, but if you wish for a patent, then so be it. You can have your patent, but the costs I am afraid are entirely up to you to raise,” answered Lord Chelsted, for the first time looking anyone in the eye as he handed back their proposal and asked them to wait for an hour or so while he had his scribe draw up a letters patent and had the Royal Seal attached to it.  
  
It was a hollow victory. Sure, have the patent, but without the cost to cover vittles and two additional ships, there would be little point in having the patent.  
  
Jason should have known better than to have tried Qarlton Chelsted right out of the gate. The Lord Treasurer had investments in Narrow Sea trade lords—or rather the Narrow Sea trade lords had made an investment in Lord Qarlton. As such, anything which threatened the supremacy of the Crownlands and King’s Landing from being the center of Westerosi trade was viewed as a threat to be nipped in the bud, apparently.  
  
But as they were brought back to a room to wait for the scribe, Jason gained an idea. Grabbing Sawane and asking young Harren to follow them, who guarded the piece of wood they’d found—and had not been allowed to join them, Jason knew exactly who to turn to next.  
  
“We shall return shortly. Wait for the scribe,” assured Jason to Harys before they hurried off.  
  
  
When they were well enough away from the waiting room, Sawane asked, “And where are we headed now?”  
  
“To someone higher placed than Lord Chelsted,” replied Jason.  
  
“Not the King…” muttered Sawane.  
  
“No, his hand,” answered Jason as they made their way towards the Tower of the Hand.  
  
Lord Tully was in the midst of a meeting with Lord Stark and as such, Harren, Sawane, and Jason had to wait outside. No one else had come to meet with Lord Tully, thank the Seven, so immediately after Lord Stark was finished they could enter. They luckily did not have to wait for too long either.  
  
When the door to the Hand’s solar opened they rose to ready themselves to enter. Harren however did so a bit too quickly and in the process ran directly into Lord Stark as he exited, causing the boy to drop the bag containing the piece of wood.  
  
Harren was frozen on sight upon seeing Lord Stark.  
  
“Forgive my son, my lord,” offered Sawane immediately  
  
“Aye… I’m sorry my lord…” added Harren, still  
  
Despite Lord Stark’s icy demeanor, he assured Harren, “There’s nothing to forgive, lad. I was a boy myself… once.”  
  
And then to everyone’s surprise, Lord Stark bent down to retrieve the wood and bag that Harren had dropped, the piece of wood having since fallen out of the bag upon hitting the ground. Immediately both Sawane and Harren moved to take up the objects but Lord Stark was too quick for their delayed reactions. Curious, Jason saw he looked at the wood and turned it over in his hands a few times with interest. His eyes however stopped wandering when it came to the dog’s head carving.  
  
“Where did you find this?” asked Lord Stark to Harren.  
  
“Out at sea, we, uh, were just about to show Lord Tully it,” answered Sawane.  
  
“Which sea?” asked Lord Stark as he turned his head to look at Sawane properly for the first time in the conversation. However it seemed he had his answer when he looked at Sawane, for his eyes contained recognition in the next moment.  
  
Jason explained the presence of two Ironborn in the Red Keep by saying, “Sawane and his son came to me with the wood—they’ve been making a living transporting goods between Seaguard and Lannisport in the rebuilding of that city.”  
  
Lord Stark nodded before adding, “Lord Mallister and… Master Botley. Would either of you mind if I sat in on your discussion with Lord Tully?”  
  
Jason was in shock. That request had been the furthest thing that he had expected to hear from Lord Stark concerning Sawane.  
  
“I… would not…” admitted Sawane cautiously, eyeing Jason as he did. And Jason gave his agreement. Harren was given back the piece of wood and they then entered Lord Tully’s solar.  
  
Hoster of course was surprised to see Lord Stark return, and commented upon it immediately after greeting them. He was not as familiar with Sawane or his son Harren as to recognize them on sight, but he did pause for a moment upon hearing the name of Botley, but Hoster did not let it show too much.  
  
Lord Stark answered Hoster’s inquiries, “Lord Malister and his friends have something of interest to show you and I would like to hear the tale of this object myself.”  
  
“Then by all means, Jason, leave me in the dark no further!” answered Hoster.  
  
“It is not my story to tell, but rather Sawane’s,” confided Jason, prompting Sawane to step forward and speak of the wood and his hopes. Sawane told his tale well, mentioning all the peculiarities of the wood as Harren allowed both Hoster and Lord Stark to examine it closer.  
  
“So you found this floating out at sea quite far to the west?” asked Hoster  
  
Sawane confirmed his answer.  
  
“What I’m curious about is how a piece of weirwood with blue sap and a carving of a direwolf like creature on it managed to find its way there…” said Hoster with a knowing look to Lord Stark.  
  
“There is an old legend amongst my family of Bran the Shipwright… who built a navy and sailed the Sunset sea… never to return again,” answered Lord Stark.  
  
“And in my wife’s family there are tales of a land far to the west. Mayhaps the two are related?” suggested Sawane.  
  
“Indeed, it’s not like there isn’t likely something to the west. But answer me one question, Master Botley, why risk all this?” asked Hoster to Sawane.  
  
“A future for my boys…” affirmed Sawane as he gave a meaningful look to Harren and then took the petition that Harys had drawn up and Jason had checked, and presented it to Hoster.  
  
“I see… and how many Ironborn are in a similar situation?” asked Hoster, taking the petition and looking it over.  
  
“Excuse me?” asked Sawane.  
  
“I mean, how many former lords of the Iron Islands are now in the situation of having to consider what to do for the future for their children?” clarified Hoster, looking up to meet Sawane’s eyes.  
  
“The King must have dispossessed nearly a dozen if not a few more lords of the Iron Islands. I know not the exact number off hand,” replied Sawane.  
  
“I see… and forgive me for dwelling on this point, but do you think many of them would be tempted by some kind of offer from the crown to take similar trips of exploration?”  
  
Sawane answered honestly, or at least as honestly as Jason could tell, saying, “No. I myself wasn’t convinced of going—despite my wife’s family’s tales of a land far to the West—until I discovered the wood. To the Ironborn, the West is the unknown and to most Ironborn, the unknown means no guarantee of bounty to reap, and thus it holds little attraction to their imaginations.”  
  
“Except to your wife’s family, you said?” asked Lord Stark.  
  
“Aye, the Farwynds of the Lonely Light, who live the furthest west of any Westerosi,” replied Sawane.  
  
Hoster then concluded, “Then we have at least a dozen or more Ironborn lords and their families with nothing to do but try to seek out a livelihood for their children… or seeking out other means by which to do so…”  
  
“Aye,” answered Sawane.  
  
Hoster seemed to ponder this for a moment before saying, “You have been most useful, Master Botley… for your help, I’ll see to it that your supply needs are met.”  
  
“Just like that?” questioned Sawane with near disbelief.  
  
Jason however pressed further, “And the ships?”  
  
“That I can assist with,” interjected Lord Stark.  
  
“ _You_ will?” asked Harren and Sawane gave his son a slight nudge to be quiet.  
  
Lord Stark continued on, “I am currently undertaking a project with my brother of building a keep on the Stony Shore, near where you plan to sail west from. From what reports I’ve had of late from my brother, it seems the men have cut down a few more trees than they needed. It would be of little trouble to use what good Northern lumber we have to assist you in the making of these ships.”  
  
“That is… more than generous, Lord Stark,” said Sawane with some disbelief.  
  
“Indeed, and what is it you ask in return?” asked Jason.  
  
“One thing, that you treat my brother’s fledgling keep as a port of call in any future trade missions to the west that you might have.”  
  
  
“We have arranged for Seaguard to have a patent on trade westward,” explained Jason.  
  
“Indeed, but in order to sail, one needs supplies and other such needs fulfilled, do they not?” suggested Lord Stark.  
  
“When will you depart on your venture?” asked Hoster.  
  
“After the coming winter. It would not be wise to sail in unknown waters with winter approaching,” explained Sawane.  
  
“Aye, autumn will soon be upon us and then winter will come…” added Lord Stark.  
  
And as such the small venture that had simply begun had grown.


	45. Helena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter was supposed to be spread out across two chapters but I got to the end of where I wanted to end this originally and it felt incomplete, so two chapters became one. Very similar to the last chapter which was supposed to be a third Jason POV that got moved to the second because events felt like they were moving as slow as molasses, unnecessarily.

**HELENA**  
  
A little more than a fortnight had passed since Sandor’s departure when she had received a raven asking for her to come immediately with Conhur to Boarshead Hall. Nothing more was said and thus Helena had to make the journey with a few guards in fear of Sandor’s life. For what other reason could she be asked to go to Boarshead Hall so soon, and with Conhur as well? Something must have happened on the road between Clegane Keep and Boarshead Hall. Bandits! Or disgruntled peasants if the rumors Sandor had heard before he left held any truth. Helena knew that Arthur and Sandor should have traveled with guards—but Sandor had dismissed them as unnecessary.   
  
_And now he is likely on his death bed… asking to see Conhur and I… mayhaps he really does—No! Put that idea out of your head. He made himself clear the night after, didn’t he? If only it were true, though…_  
  
Conhur was at first reluctant to want to leave Clegane Keep when all the preparations had been finalized at the end of a week—stating that Murchadh would be lonely without him. Helena assured him that the gamekeeper would have more than enough to keep him busy and that he was likely to enjoy having some time to himself.   
  
Helena did not share her worries about Sandor with Conhur. She was even nervous of mentioning that he would be meeting his mother, whom Conhur had little to no memory of. While Calena asked after the boy in her letters to Clegane Keep, she had stopped asking to be remembered to him some time ago.  
  
When she finally did arrive at Boarshead Hall to be greeted by her much battered, but recovering brother, Helena was convinced the bandits had likely attacked the keep itself. Everything and everyone else faded from importance, her guards, the fact that her niece and nephew were there, her heavily pregnant goodsister, even poor little scared Conhur on his little pony. As she dismounted all she could think of was the unimaginable scene of bandits overtaking Sandor, Arthur, and Lymond. She was about to say something about his face, but decided against doing so—recalling that Lymond had never liked it when she had fussed over the cuts and scars he’d gotten when younger, irritated at all the “womanly fussing” as he had put it. So she held her tongue on that account, though she was sure he could read the shock on her face.  
  
“It is good to have you home, sister,” welcomed Lymond more warmly than when he had left her at Clegane Keep. Something was quite… different about him. Something besides the better sewn red and white doublet and breeches he wore.  
  
“Where is Sandor?” asked Helena immediately, and she felt her brother’s grip on her tighten at the mention of his name.  
  
 _No… Seven please…_  
  
As Lymond disentangled himself from her, she saw that his usual stoic face that he had had when he had returned from being Lord Stafford’s squire was on again.  
  
“Is he all right?” asked Helena, looking now between her brother and her goodsister. After sharing a look with Lymond, her goodsister dressed in a red and white dress with a yellow sash above her belly, averted her eyes from Helena’s glance.  
  
Lymond at long last broke the tense silence, “We shall speak with _him_ soon. But you must be tired from your journey.” He had recovered his good nature from his warm greeting by the time he said the second sentence.  
  
 _He’s alive! The Seven be blessed!_  
  
And that assurance for the moment would suffice.  
  
“I am… and what of Conhur?” asked Helena now motioning to the small boy who had dismounted his pony as the servants took it along with the horses to the stables. Despite Conhur’s black hair, obvious lack of a scar, and lack of a larger nose, he was otherwise Sandor's miniature in appearance dressed in brown with yellow dogs of her sewing upon his little doublet—the inverse colors of the dress Helena wore. Helena welcomed the boy to her side. The normally happy child—now turned silent approached as though he were a scared fish—jittery at first approach and then still the next moment by her side, grabbing her hand tightly and half hiding behind her yellow skirt.  
  
“We have a… room suiting his… station prepared already,” answered Lymond with some trouble, eying Calena who upon seeing Conhur had not let her eyes depart from him. Lymond then took his leave and said that he needed to attend to matters in his solar. Once he had left, the children seemed to discover their voice as her nephew Sandor approached her but was more interested in his elder half-brother, hiding behind her skirts. Little Sandor was quite large for being only two namedays old, Helena thought, one might mistake him for three or a little more.  
  
“You look like the bad man,” pronounced her nephew off the bat.  
  
 _Bad man?_  
  
“Sandor!” chastised his mother, who now seemed to have discovered her own voice and recovered herself from the shock of seeing Conhur. Conhur had yet to find his own voice. And almost immediately her brother’s son was sent off, with only little Lymera staying. Lymera, Helena could see looked exactly like her grandmother, Helena’s mother—except for the long brown Clegane hair which she had done neatly in a long braid which came down to her waist.  
  
“Pleased to meet you my lady aunt,” recited little Lymera demurely and with a perfect curtsy that certainly would have pleased her grandmother, unlike Helena had ever been able to.  
  
Helena nodded her head with a smile, and then pulled Conhur out from behind her to meet his sister.  
  
“I am happy to meet you as well my dear niece. I do not believe you are well acquainted with your brother, Conhur.”  
  
“Brother?” asked Lymera, looking to her mother with confusion.  
  
“Your half-brother, Conhur Hill,” explained Calena calmly, having returned to looking at Conhur with some wonder. Lymera for her part still looked somewhat confused.  
  
“This is your mother, Conhur,” added Helena to her nephew, and Conhur looked between Helena and Calena for a moment, before realization struck him. Conhur, to his credit, remembered to give a halfway decent bow to both Lymera and Calena.  
  
“Lymera, take… Conhur for a moment and show him the view from the old tower. Your aunt and I have some… things to discuss,” answered Calena. Lymera obeyed as any dutiful daughter would, while Conhur seemed reluctant to leave and clung tightly to Helena’s hand until Helena assured him it would be all right. Then the reluctant boy of five namedays tentatively let go and followed his half-sister across the courtyard—occasionally stopping to look back.  
  
“He looks so much like Sandor did at his age…” commented Calena as soon as her first son and daughter were out of earshot.  
  
“Aye, and he’s as sweet and stubborn as him too,” clarified Helena.  
  
“Sweet? Aye… Sandor was sweet then…” commented Calena absentmindedly, before indicating that she should follow her.  
  
 _Was?_  
  
Catching up with her quick moving goodsister, Helena asked, “Sister… Calena… what is it that you wished to speak with me on?”  
  
After a long silence spent entering the interior of the keep and then walking through a passageway Calena noted, “You did not comment on Lymond’s wounds.”  
  
“I—I thought Lymond wouldn’t wish for me to say anything… he never liked me fussing over him before.”  
  
“He didn’t?” asked Calena with some confusion.  
  
Helena confirmed, “No… he once said it was… unbecoming of a future knight to have his little sister fussing over him…”  
  
At this Calena gave a half stifled laugh which she quickly gained control of.  
  
“Well, what a man doesn’t wish from a sister…” began Calena, but she never finished her thought and Helena felt she hadn’t needed to do so.  
  
They arrived at the room Helen had kept before she left for Clegane Keep. Helena upon entering it was struck by how everything in her absence seemed to have gotten smaller.  
  
“So how did my brother get hurt?” asked Helena as she sat upon her old bed.  
  
All the light humor was gone from her goodsister in an instant as she said, “From Sandor.”  
  
 _No…_  
  
“From S—sandor?” she asked.  
  
“Aye,” was Calena’s reply.  
  
“How?”  
  
When Calena had finished telling her that Sandor had challenged Lymond upon sight and then attacked him when he failed to take up his challenge, Helena felt ill and queasy. Sandor, well Helena wasn’t blind to his anger—but he had always kept it out in the forest away from everyone and everything else. But this?  
  
She knew one thing though. “I need to see him.”  
  
“I don’t think—” began Calena.  
  
“Either take me to him now, or I’ll go and find him myself,” declared Helena. She did not know where he was likely being kept but sure she could find him—Boarshead Hall wasn’t that large after all.  
  
With a sigh, Calena beckoned her to follow. They left her rooms and exited the keep. Upon returning to the courtyard their attention however was distracted by yelling.  
  
“Sandor, stop it!” pleaded a young girl’s voice that Helena recognized a moment later to be Lymera. Instantly Calena and Helena clutched their skirts so they could run towards the sound of the yelling. They came to an isolated part of the courtyard at the base of the tall tower Helena recalled climbing as a child and pretending she was a princess in some song needing to be rescued. She recalled that tower with great fondness for it had the best view of the entire castle—looking down the foothills and out far in the distance the barest hint of sea could be seen. But at the foot of it, wrestling in a mud pit was Conhur and Sandor—while Lymera stood as close as she could to avoid getting muddied as the two half-brothers wrestled in the mud. Calena stopped upon seeing them, with Helena not far behind.  
  
“Sandor Vikary!” scolded Calena.  
  
“Conhur!” called out Helena at nearly the same instant.  
  
Immediately the two half-brothers stopped where they were—Sandor for the moment on top of his elder brother his his palm against his brother’s face ready to push it into the mud. Both boys immediately looked shamed face and blushed underneath the absolute coating of mud they were both completely covered in and stood up, though each knocked and pushed against each other until Helena and Calena had to order them to stand still.  
  
It was then Calena asked her daughter, “What happened Lymera?”  
  
“I was showing Conhur the tower and Sandor started yelling about how he was going to hurt you and Conhur said he wouldn’t and they started arguing—” Lymera was obviously distressed and the image of the perfect little girl completely broke at that moment as she clutched her mother’s skirts.  
  
“He is, he looks just like the bad man!” insisted little Sandor.  
  
“That man is your uncle and namesake, Sandor,” reminded Calena harshly.  
  
“He’s no uncle of mine!” proclaimed little Sandor.  
  
“Nuncle wouldn’t hurt anyone! Tell ‘em auntie!” insisted Conhur, before either Calena or Helena had a chance to react.  
  
Helena was at a loss of words.  
  
“Auntie?” mocked the young Sandor.  
  
“Sandor!” Calena then said exasperatedly, “You both are an absolute mess! Go and wash up—and I don’t want to hear of any arguments about this!” admonished Calena to the boys.  
  
Little Sandor looked at Conhur before hurrying off, with Conhur remaining, his eyes locked on an increasingly uncomfortable Helena.  
  
“Tell them…” insisted Conhur much more quietly.  
  
“Sometimes people do things they don’t mean to do…” offered Helena weakly, but this only seemed to upset the boy who then rushed off as Helena called out his name. Lymera after she was soothed was sent off to the Septa and Calena and Helena returned to their task, with Helena much troubled by the memory of Conhur’s hurt glance.  
  
Sandor was being kept in the the meeting room of the guardhouse. Two cots had been brought inside it and Arthur and Sandor were inside sitting at a table when they at first entered. Upon recognizing they had company and who it was who came, both Arthur and Sandor stood—silently.  
  
“Calena… you came…” were the first words out of Sandor’s mouth.  
  
“To bring you your wife,” was Calena’s flat reply before turning out of the room and closing the door behind her, giving a look to Helena that said she’d be just outside.  
  
Sandor, haggard looking and weary as though he hadn’t had a good night’s rest in quite some time now looked to Helena.  
  
In truth Helena knew not what to say to Sandor… she simply wanted to see him to try and balance in her mind the young man who could be so kind when he wanted and who was so quick to anger.  
  
They were quiet for a long while until at long last Helena felt something come to her.  
  
“Why?” It was only one word, a question, but it’s what she needed to know.  
  
Sandor did not look her in the eye and simply said, “He took her.”  
  
“And you took me to wife,” she retorted.  
  
He emphasized, “No, he _took_ her. Like the Ironborn had…”  
  
And suddenly it all seemed so terribly clear.  
  
She asked, “Was my brother such a villain to you?”  
  
"I do not know your brother," was his answer.  
  
 _Aye that's the truth..._  
  
She turned her eyes to Arthur and continued, “C—calena tells me you tried to stop him from hurting Lymond.”   
  
“Thank you,” she said. Helena wasn’t sure why she was thanking him, if it was for Lymond’s sake or Sandor’s, but she knew she owed him in either case she felt.  
  
It was then that Helena felt the need to leave—feeling quite sick to her stomach once again. She returned to her room and fell into the bed of her childhood, confused as to how she felt emotionally, feeling queasy in her stomach, and ready to simply curl up and sleep.   
  
She awoke several hours later when it was clearly dark out to the sound of her door opening. Helena pretended to still be asleep, if only to have some time for herself, but she heard the sound of little feet enter and close the door again. It was then Helena sat up and turned to see Conhur having entered her room.  
  
“What is it?” she asked groggily.  
  
Conhur at once flew to Helena’s arms and clung to her, burying his head in her body and wept. Helena felt drained but she did her best to shush and soothe the little boy.  
  
“I want to go back to the Keep,” whimpered Conhur.  
  
 _So do I… if only we could go back…_  
  
Helena let her nephew cry himself to sleep in her arms and then without ceremony she too fell back to sleep.  
  
Helena remained sick for several days thereafter—either her body was preparing for its moon's blood—of which she was overdue—or she was too sick of spirit to get up. Conhur visited her frequently, preferring her company, though he admitted he liked spending time with his half-sister Lymera on occasion.   
  
“And your mother?” asked Helena sweetly.  
  
Conhur simply shrugged his shoulders without answering, and Helena began to worry a bit.  
  
In either case Helena remained in her room and refused to leave it for any enticement. Finally when a sennight had passed, Lymond himself visited her in her chambers, bringing with him a roll of parchment, followed quickly by Calena who was chastising him for disturbing her while she felt so poorly.  
  
“All she has to do is sign it and she can go on feeling as sick as she likes!” insisted Lymond.  
  
“She’s in no fit mind to sign anything!” insisted Calena.  
  
“Let her be the judge of that!” countered Lymond as he then shoved a piece of parchment in front of her face, along with a quill.  
  
“What is it?” asked Helena.  
  
“Just sign it and this whole mess will be over with,” insisted Lymond.  
  
“It’s a petition to the High Septon to annul your marriage to my brother,” explained  
  
“Annul?” asked Helena.  
  
Lymond answered, “Aye. I’ve agreed that since there was a misunderstanding that I can find it in my heart to be… forgiving… but only if you don’t remain married to him. He said he has not taken your maidenhood and gave no qualms about the conditions. All you need to do is sign the parchment.”  
  
“Do you truly need my signature?” she asked, recalling the way she had been married to Sandor in the first place.  
  
“I am not your warder and therefore, yes I do,” explained Lymond.   
  
Helena felt this was all happening far too fast, “I won’t sign anything until I read it.”  
  
Dropping the parchment in her lap he then urged, “Then read it and be done with it, sister.”  
  
“I’ll read it at my own time, not when you tell me!” growled Helena in response.  
  
“Come, Lymond, let’s give her some time to herself,” urged Calena as she had to nearly drag the shocked Lymond out of Helena’s room.  
  
When they had gone, Helena once again collapsed onto her bed and let the parchment fly from her lap to the floor. Later by candlelight she would read over the petition.  
  
 _We beseech your holiness to consider the annulment of the marriage of my sister, Helena Vikary to one Sandor Clegane to be annulled. They were hastily married as children by our warder, Lord Stafford Lannister, in an attempt to repopulate the Westerlands’ noble houses. Since that time they have both sworn to me that they have not known each others’ bodies, and as such no true marriage in the light of the Seven has occurred between them. They are both desirous of annulment for their own reasons, my sister’s being to join the most holy of callings, that of a Septa’s. Humbly we ask for your approval and guidance in this manner._  
  
And beneath was signed Lymond’s and Sandor’s signatures, leaving room only for hers…  
  
 _He signed a lie…_  
  
“You won’t sign it, will you?” asked Conhur suddenly, having reappeared in her room.  
  
“Have you been reading my papers?” she asked incredulously.  
  
Conhur nodded in reply.  
  
“How much did you understand?” she asked with a sigh.  
  
“If you sign that, then you go away…” sniffled Conhur, once again throwing himself into her arms, but this time holding on to her tightly as if he were scared she’d vanish if he did.  
  
The next morning Helena rose quite early and freshened herself as best she could and went immediately to speak with Sandor, taking the parchment with her, leaving little Conhur asleep in her furs.  
  
She came upon Sandor still asleep in his own furs, looking much like an overgrown scarred version of the little boy she had left in her room. She then shook him awake.  
  
“Fuggerit” he mumbled at her first attempt, but Helena persisted and his eyes snapped open and he saw her—and whatever he had been about to say seemed to catch in his throat.  
  
“You came back…” he finally said in slight amazement.  
  
“Why did you sign this?” she demanded, showing him the petition.  
  
Sandor stared at the parchment as if trying to discern what it was she held in her hands for a few moments before recognition lit over his face and he groggily replied, “Did we not agree before I left that—”  
  
“No, _we_ did not agree!” retorted Helena, surprised at how she had found her own voice in that moment. Helena heard movement from Arthur’s cot across the room, which she ignored for the moment.  
  
“We are not truly married,” he said.  
  
“But we are… or have you forgotten?” she asked.  
  
“Forgotten? I’d remember fucking you--” he began.  
  
  
“At the Inn,” she reminded.  
  
“The Inn?” he questioned.  
  
  
“Aye,” she confirmed, surprised that he needed be reminded of that night.  
  
“You mean…” he began.  
  
 _He truly didn’t know?_  
  
“I thought you figured it out. I mean who else would have folded your clothes afterwards?”  
  
 _If he didn’t realize before, he does now._  
  
Sandor snapped blearily, “I was fucking blindfolded and you expect me to have figured it out?! What was the point of that, anyway?”  
  
“I thought that perhaps one night might give us both what we wanted but were too bloody proud and scared to say aloud,” she retorted.  
  
Another moment of silence passed between them, that was not disturbed by a clearly not sleeping Arthur.  
  
“What happens now?” Sandor asked, clearly in shock.  
  
“We tell my brother and you do what you have to to deal with your feelings with him and make amends,” she demanded.  
  
Sandor nodded weakly, still somewhat in shock, and Helena began to take her leave, but Sandor took her hand before she left. They said nothing and yet everything was said by that touch. And Helena knew now more than ever she wanted him more than before.  
  
Lymond was not exactly pleased to hear the truth, in fact his first response was to say, “As long as no one else finds out, we can say you ruptured your maidenhood while riding a horse—it’s a common enough occurrence.”  
  
“No,” insisted Helena firmly as she ripped up the parchment.  
  
“Are you mad Helena?!” exclaimed Lymond.  
  
“I am likely with his child,” she countered. It wasn’t a sure thing, far from it as she was only a few days past her moon’s blood. But if it would begin the process of healing...  
  
“It takes more than one time to conceive a child,” dismissed Lymond.  
  
“Not always,” she countered.  
  
“Then instead of legitimizing Conhur, we’ll simply move to disinherit your… husband in favor of your child while you raise it here,” retorted Lymond.  
  
“Why are you trying to lash out like this? Besides attacking you—for which he’s willing to make amends for--what else has he done?” asked Helena.  
  
"Is that not enough? What kind of impression do you think he’s left upon me to make me think him willing to actually make good on his words?” asked Lymond.   
  
“And what impression did you leave upon him after taking his sister away so soon after she had been kidnapped and raped, and without saying so much as a goodbye to me?” she challenged.  
  
To this Lymond countered, “I spent nearly a moon with her, wooing and waiting for him to return from his hunt, is it my fault he had left his sister unattended for so long that I was eager to be done with the waiting? Recall how our lands looked after the Ironborn—”  
  
Before he descended into any more excuses, Helena cut through them and said, “Talk to him and settle this matter between you both like you should have had long ago. Even if you were to annul my marriage, he would still be your goodbrother through Calena--and for her sake, if not mine or my child's--if you truly care for her, you will make amends.”  
  
She then took her leave of a flabbergasted Lymond and returned to her room where she found Conhur and Lymera rolling a ball between them on the floor. Helena stopped at the sight and smiled, recalling how Sandor had played this game with Conhur and her not so long ago. She joined her nephew and niece’s game, which proved to be made more complicated by the attempt to try and roll the ball in front of the person without the other blocking it with their hands. Helena let both Lymera and Conhur win at least once before trying a little harder herself, and losing her worries to the simple enjoyment of the game.  
  
The following afternoon she was sitting and reading to Conhur and Lymera—the two curled up on either side of her half asleep, when she heard a knock upon her door. After bidding them to come in, Helena was half-surprised to see Sandor pass the threshold. He seemed about to say something, but upon the sight of Conhur and Lymera held his tongue. Helena quietly untangled herself from her nephew and niece’s grasps and then rose and joined Sandor just outside her door.  
  
“Is it true?” he asked, before she could express what relief she felt at seeing him out of the meeting room for the guards.  
  
“Is what true?” she asked.  
  
He looked down towards her waist and she then understood.  
  
“I have missed a moon’s blood,” she answered honestly enough.  
  
He nodded his head, and then continued, “Arthur and I are to leave for Winterfell come the morrow… your brother says that Conhur and you are to stay here until…”  
  
He left the thought dangling in the air, unfinished, so she did so for him.  
  
“Until the babe is born, or I am proven not to be pregnant?” she asked, and he nodded his head in reply. She then sighed, guessing her brother was still being stubborn about some matters, and probed further “What else did he say?”  
  
He scowled.  
  
“Tell me,” she urged.  
  
“If I am to be worthy of you and… the babe, that I am to truly earn a fucking knighthood through battle or deed—not vows,” he answered.  
  
This was more than she had expected from Lymond, but “That is a good thing. You’re a landed knight—without a title how are you to earn the respect of your smallfolk?”  
  
“Titles don’t mean shit. Arthur has no title,” retorted Sandor.  
  
“He had one, until the King took it from him,” she reminded.  
  
“My brother was a knight...” said Sandor darkly.  
  
Helena had little knowledge of Sandor’s elder brother beyond the fact that he had given Sandor the scar which she hardly saw anymore.  
  
“Then give the title some meaning when you at last take it,” she insisted.  
  
He grumbled at that, but she grabbed him by his arms and looked up into his eyes to let him know she meant it. He said nothing in reply, but she was sure that when he finally did leave for Winterfell, that he had taken her words into account.


	46. Asha

**ASHA  
  
** It was enough as far as Asha was concerned. Years of pranks and failed attempts at catching the unknown prankster in the act had culminated in this final prank which had nearly gotten Patrek and her hurt. She had been returning from the practice yard where she had been working with the throwing axes that Ser Brynden had acquired for her and helping Patrek with his aim with a bow. They had just entered the keep to escape the particularly cold autumn breezes when suddenly they found themselves slipping on a thin layer of ice on the stone floor just inside the door, causing them both to lose their footing and to go sliding and fall. The dangerous part was the entrance was near the stairs—which went both up to the next level and down into the cellars below. They very easily could have continued sliding and gone tumbling down the stone stairs into the cellars and have broken an arm, leg, or something worse. It was only later Asha learned that Patrek and herself had stumbled into the after effects of a prank that had been pulled on Edmure and the Vance brothers—the old water bucket on top of the door trick, which seemed to be the signature move of these pranksters—that they put things on top of doors.  
  
Somehow in the five years since coming to Riverrun the mystery pranksters had managed to elude detection, so it only made Asha more determined that beginning tonight, that they soon be discovered.  
  
The taller and lanky twelve namedays girl waited by a statue of a leaping trout tucked away in a small nook of a passageway. As she waited she absent-mindedly was sharpening one of her throwing knives with a whetstone she’d nicked from the armory. It wasn’t that she expected to use her throwing knives any time soon—but she found the idea of retaining the dull blades that Ser Brynden had given her to be impractical, and so she sharpened them. Patrek, who was her shadow these days, was still short for his age and still looked much like the child he still was, but even he was beginning to catch up to Asha who had shot up over the course of the last year tremendously. Patrek’s head was now up to her nose, and he was beginning to trip over growing feet which wore out boots like crazy—he was already on his third pair this year! Why if he had been on the Iron Isles—he’d likely have had to go around barefoot with the rate he destroyed his boots.  
  
“Do you have a second whetstone?” Patrek asked, clearly bored at having nothing to do.  
  
“I told you that you should have nicked your own,” reminded Asha.  
  
“But do you have one?” he persisted.  
  
Oh Patrek could be persistent when he thought he was on to something.  
  
“No, and stop fretting! If you continue to distract me, this knife just might go flying from my hand…” warned Asha.  
  
“You’d never hurt me,” countered Patrek rather confidently.  
  
“I wouldn’t, would I?” she challenged, though she knew he was right about that.  
  
He answered rather self-assuredly, “No, you wouldn’t.”  
  
“You’re right… at least, I wouldn’t on purpose,” she added with a smirk.  
  
Just then they heard footsteps approaching, and Asha quickly returned her knife to the holster at her waist and slipped the whetstone into the pouch she kept next to it. It was all for naught as Edmure, Marq Piper and the Vance brothers, Ronald and Hugo, soon appeared. All four boys were older than Asha, but she was now of equal height to most of them so that fact was nearly forgotten. And Asha could just barely still see over Hugo Vance who was only one year her senior. Asha smiled as she saw Edmure approach. Edmure had had an early growth spurt around twelve and gained only a few small inches since then, so that now he was only an inch or two taller than her, with him worrying that at five and ten namedays he might remain on the shorter side. Asha sometimes teased him about it.  
  
“You’re late,” she scolded as she stood up.  
  
“Marq was busy fussing with his hair,” retorted Edmure.  
  
“I was not!” protested Marq while he absent-mindedly shook it so that attention would be drawn to his shining golden locks.  
  
“Who were you trying to look good for, Marq? Last I checked Edmure wasn’t interested.” teased Asha.  
  
Edmure’s face nearly turned as red as his wavy Tully red hair, while Marq laughed.  
  
“Some of us actually get to leave the castle. And I have plans,” teased Marq in response.  
  
“Oh, do tell, I’d like to get some advice on how to… please a man,” cajoled Asha as she edged herself closer to Marq. Ronald and Hugo could barely contain their laughter.  
  
“Only if you tell me how you send the maids howling,” countered Marq with a smirk, knowing full well she had no interest in maids of any sort—in fact most dreaded coming into her chambers for fear of getting a knife thrown at them—a reputation she had rightfully earned that one time a maid had tried to force her into a dress at the old Septa’s orders, and had remained with little maintainence on her part.  
  
“What was it you wanted to show us?” nearly growled Edmure, clearly mad about something—likely the earlier jest she’d made of him and Marq. He had twisted his face into a scowl reminiscent of his uncle and his young one nameday old cousin Tristifer—who was his father in miniature. Thankfully Vylott, Tristifer’s elder sister, seemed much more like her mother in personality, and thus was free of the disapproving Tully scowl, as Asha liked to term it.  
  
 _Uggh! He can be so touchy when he wants to be._  
  
“Well, my fish lord, why don’t you shake fins with your kin and find out?” suggested Asha, deciding that if he wanted to be grouchy, then he could figure things out for himself. He was confused for a moment before she saw him realize that she meant he touch one of the fins on the leaping trout statue. He did, pressing the left fin so that the next moment the sound of stone sliding against stone was heard next to where they stood and a small section of the wall of the nook had moved aside to reveal a darkened passageway behind it.  
  
“Well, don’t just stand there gawking, somebody grab a torch!” urged Asha at the collection of dumbstruck boys. Needless to say, they soon recovered, Ronald quickly grabbing a nearby torch from off the passageway’s wall and they were inside the dark and damp tunnel shortly thereafter. On the other side of the door facing the outer passage, thin stones had been mortared to disguise its entrance. After they were all inside, Asha then asked for Ronald to shine the torch on the door they had just come through to see that a wooden door which could be opened from their side by the pressing of a wooden block to release the door from being held in place by two wooden knobs—one of which poked out of the floor and the other from above the door, which when the wooden block was pressed both retracted, leaving the door to swing open—its bottom stones scraping along the stone floor of the chamber. Having closed and demonstrated opening the door several times they then continued down the dank and foreboding passageway.  
  
The tunnel was well strewn with cobwebs, spiders, rats, and other sorts of creatures which Asha could see Marq was less than thrilled to be bumping elbows with. Patrek was hardly any fonder from what Asha recalled of his squirming to get away from a particularly large black spider she’d picked up and thrown at him a few years prior as a joke, but at least he wasn’t swinging his dagger nearly wildly at anything which moved.  
  
“It leads to the base of the Water Tower, if we keep going down that way,” explained Asha when they came to a fork in the tunnel, pointing to a part which continued to descend into darkness.  
  
“And this way?” asked Ronald, stairs leading up that they took.  
  
“You’ll see,” was Asha’s answer.  
  
The stairs took them to a higher level and a very narrow corridor which they could only walk through in a single file line with Ronald carrying the torch in front. This corridor was not so dark and damp as the lower one they had come from, and sometimes on the walls on either side of them, they could see small streams of light peeking through in their path. Through some of these small cracks they could see their own chambers. They however continued on a little ways beyond their cluster of chambers to where the corridor came to a dead end, with Asha hoping that their voices wouldn’t be heard, less the pranksters be in their chambers currently.  
  
“How long—” began Edmure normally when Asha indicated that it was fine to speak.   
  
“Shh! Keep your voice down. You don’t want anybody else knowing about this, do you?” asked Asha in a barely audible whisper.  
  
  
“How long have you known about this?” asked Edmure in hushed tones.  
  
“Ever since Patrek accidentially found it about a moon or so ago. Look, I figure we can have one of us inside here in shifts and we can listen in to see if we hear any of the others planning another prank,” explained Asha.  
  
“Can we even hear what they’re saying?” asked Hugo doubtfully.  
  
And suddenly from the wall closest to them they heard a raised voice say, “You’re saddling me with a fucking wooden castle on top of ruins that haven’t been habitable for centuries!”  
  
“That sounds like Ser Brynden,” added Marq  
  
“With Seaguard likely to grow, it’s in the perfect place to both overlook a road between here and there as well as cut that damn old weasel out of the trade. Besides, my niece and nephew deserve to have an inheritance of their own. You’ve had a good score and six years to play the doting Uncle, now it’s my turn.”  
  
“My father…” said Edmure.  
  
“Have you considered, Brynden, that you would have the freedom to design the castle to your own wishes?” interjected a woman who Asha recognized as Lady Jeyne.  
  
“You’re taking his side?” rounded Brynden.  
  
“Tristifer deserves something of his own, does he not?” insisted Lady Jeyne.  
  
“Let’s go,” encouraged Edmure, apparently not comfortable overhearing the discussion he was hearing. Though there was some grumble there was an overall disinterest in the conversation to depart. When they had returned to the bottom of the stairs, Asha pulled Edmure back and asked “What were they arguing about?”  
  
“Father’s building a wooden castle and making Uncle, Lord of Oldstones,” explained Edmure, as though he already knew of this plan.  
  
 _Ser Brynden is leaving?_  
  
This thought ran rampant in her mind and shook her.  
  
 _A castle is not built in a fortnight and they are still arguing over how to build the damn thing. Mayhaps I’ll leave Riverrun before Ser Brynden does._  
  
This thought assured her.  
  
“You all right?” asked Edmure, still lingering despite the torch slowly returning back to the secret entrance.  
  
After a moment, Asha assured him, “Aye. Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
Then Edmure seemed to smile awkwardly before saying, “I only thought—well, that doesn’t matter, I guess…”  
  
A moment of slight awkwardness passed for a moment before Asha began to head back towards the retreating torch, which by now had reached the entrance and at a distance could be seen another light joining the torch from the opening door.  
  
“Wait, Asha… I have something I’d like to tell you—” began Edmure, but at that moment a shouts were heard from the entrance to the tunnel. Shouts which immediately drew their attentions to them and caused them to hurry to the entrance to the tunnel. The rest of their company had passed through and left the door open behind them. At the threshold Edmure and Asha saw Hugo Vance and Marq Piper having tackled Liam Mooton and Lymond Goodbrook.   
  
Immediately Patrek rushed up to them carrying a large bucket happily announcing, "Asha! Edmure! Look what we found them carrying!"  
  
Asha looked and saw that the bucket was nearly filled with mud.  
  
"So these are our two pranksters?" she asked as she took the bucket from Patrek--it was heavier than she anticipated but she managed to shrug it off as nothing for the moment.   
  
She then approached Liam and Lymond who were being held in place by Marq and Hugo, Ronald coming to assist Hugo with a rather resistant. She gave Marq, Hugo and Ronald a quick look before grabbing the bucket by more than the handle and just at the last second Marq, Hugo  & Ronald pushed Liam and Lymond forward just as Asha swung the bucket drenching them with the liquidy mud.  
  
"What in the name of the Seven Hells is going on here?" came a voice and Asha turned to see Lord Tully standing not to far down the corridor.  
  
Before Asha or anyone had time to respond, Edmure said, "It was my idea father." Somehow he had re-entered the chamber and closed the door to the tunnel behind him.  
  
"Indeed... then I dare say you can not expect much freedom in King's Landing. As for the rest of you," the old fish lord eyed , "you are to clean up this mess... all of you."  
  
Lord Tully then passed them with a contemptible frown upon his lips.  
  
"King's Landing?" asked Asha to Edmure, though she knew she wasn't the only one wondering that question.  
  
Edmure seemed to blush now, and he said gruffly "Aye... father is to take me there for a few moons to teach me a few things himself."  
  
Edmure's departure was at the end of the week, and he was to accompany his father for several moons to learn the art of "politics" before returning to complete his training with his uncle.  
  
Truth be told Asha practiced harder with her axes in that week more than she had prior. Finding the act of throwing an axe straight into a wooden target or post almost exhilirating and it kept her mind off the fact that yet another person was leaving. Why should she have thought anyone would stay? Didn't they all leave in time?  
  
 _No he'll be back.  
_  
 _Just like Theon will..._  
  
She swuing at her post quite hard that time, leaving a defininte split in it.  
  
When it came time to say goodbye, Asha found it a rather difficult task. It was almost as bad as when she'd been separated from Theon.  
  
He spent most of his time in the courtyard before his departure patting the rest of the squires on the back and exchanging a joke or two before moving on to the next person. Either because she had hidden herself towards the back of the throng of boys, or because Edmure waited to say goodbye to her last, she was the final person he gave leave to before mounting his horse.  
  
Before he could say anything sappy and stupid, Asha said almost immediately, "Your red cloak looks stupid with your hair."  
  
Edmure smirked at that and gave his answer, "And I can hardly see you in the shadows with the sun out," referring of course to the black of her House colors.  
  
"I'll gut you like your banner if you do anything stupid," warned Asha.  
  
He then hugged her and whispered in her ear, likewise, "I'll tie your tentacles in knots."  
  
She punched his arm for that comment, and Edmured laughed. Yes, this was how she wanted to say goodbye--with a smile and a laugh. She had had enough of tearful goodbyes for one lifetime--may there be no more of them.  
  
And then he said, "I'll write... if I have the time."  
  
She answered mockingly, "I might read them... if I have the time."  
  
And with nothing else needing to be said, Edmure mounted his horse and rode off with his father and his men.


	47. Eddard III

**EDDARD**

 

He had had enough reports of training to last a lifetime. From every castle, reports from knights of their squires and their abilities flooded the desk of his solar. Only some he could have corroborated from a more trusted eyes he had sent himself to assess the skills of the younger half of his generation—and not all the reports matched with the knights’ own, leaving Eddard in a discontent state. There was no way to tell if the knightly reports were actually honest or not the product of pride, a dangerous distortion which in the likely naval war they were to embark upon, could mean sending improperly trained boys to their death. Robert was insistent upon having the forces ready for battle, for he meant to strike against Euron Greyjoy in his hiding spot once the proper terms could be settled with the Free Cities, a measurement which Hoster had been insistent they honor, given the peace treaty at the end of the last Blackfyre rebellion.

 

Ned was therefore grateful to have his mind taken off of his work by the entrance of Maester Luwin to his chambers.

 

“Not another bloody letter,” groaned Ned.

 

“No, my lord. I… wished to speak with you upon the matter of the boys…” began Maester Luwin tentatively.

 

The other subject which these days took up most of his time ever since the boys had awoken from their week-long slumber. Sometimes Ned was almost tempted to eat a seed himself if it only meant he could have just as long a break from dealing with these matters as those seeds allowed. But he was the Lord of Winterfell, and he would not shirk his duty.

 

“What is it this time? Have they been speaking again to this talking raven?” he asked, still not entirely sure that the raven wasn’t just a child’s imagination. Great Uncle Brandon had said that he would hear things if he ate the seed, but he had never spoken of a talking raven.

 

Tugging at his choker of a chain, Maester Luwin replied, “No… I believe it has to deal with your sons’ new interest in reading and the tongue they speak in now…”

 

That was one thing which made Ned paused. Suddenly, overnight, the boys were able to speak a language that Ned could hardly understand, and when asked the boys simply said that it was the “old tongue” that the raven was teaching them. He might have again dismissed it as a child’s invention… if it weren’t for the fact that the language was so… complete. Cat herself had commented on it, saying that there were no mistakes, no fumbling which she had had when she and her sister had learned to speak in secret to one another.

 

_It is as though they are speaking a tongue that came complete, out of thin air… not even Lysa and I could do that!_

 

But that was impossible… or at least he had to believe it was so. Catelyn was more eager to believe and began visiting the godswood with the boys more frequently, to ask this raven what his intentions were. Ned could imagine what the questionings were like—with the boys likely giggling behind her back. Ned had no doubt they saw and heard things that he did not—but this raven… he absolutely could not believe in this talking raven. The Old Gods did not work in such showy manners. They were a quiet bunch who let their ways known indirectly through signs. The idea that they could have a mouthpiece seemed strange and too much like Catelyn’s faith to Ned. True there had been Greenseers in the past—but they were all dead now… surely? Well, even if one did still live as Branden had said, he wouldn’t be a raven.

 

“What about this tongue?” asked Ned, rubbing his eyes to ease their soreness before returning his gaze back to Luwin.

 

Luwin continued on, saying delightedly, “They’ve begun to write it down, my lord. At first I thought it mere scribblings of lines that didn’t make any sense, but when I looked again… I recognized them as runes. Old runes---not of the late period from after the Andal arrival, but of the earlier period—the one no one has been able to decipher.”

 

“You mean to tell me, that the boys are all writing in a tongue that has been dead for thousands upon thousands of years?” asked Ned.

 

“Aye, well, at least as well as I can make out they are writing and speaking it as such,” answered Luwin rather overeagerly—as though he were a student once more at the Citadel.

 

Ned sighed, and knew what he had to do. He needed a break from being the Seven Kingdoms’ Master of Arms and Men anyway.

 

“Send for my sons. I would speak to them further about this tongue.” Luwin nodded his head and hurried off, leaving Ned to mentally prepare himself for what he was to ask his sons.

 

He had hardly had time to rise from his chair before the door opened, but instead of his sons, he was greeted by the sight of Theon Greyjoy. For a nine nameday old boy, he was of average height, and his dark eyes and black hair complemented one another. The face which otherwise held a constant smirk upon it was now reformed in his sight into what Ned approximated was Theon’s attempt to mimic his own dour looks—it almost made Ned laugh.

 

“What is it, Theon?” asked Ned as he finished rising from his chair. He noticed that the boy kept one hand behind his back.

 

The boy was hesitant to admit his purposed, but eventually he said, “I… I came to seek Maester Luwin.”

 

“I’m afraid you just missed him. But he will shortly return, if you care to wait.”

 

A peep could be heard from behind Theon’s back. Theon seemed startled by the sound and fidgeted while standing there until he suddenly burst out saying, “Ow!”

 

“What is it that you have there, Theon?” asked Ned, guessing some bird of some kind.

 

Theon blushed and then slowly he brought out from behind his back what looked to be a small puff of a raven chick no bigger than his one hand, completely covered in soft black downy feathers and with a very large black beak and black glassy eyes. The chick chirped and then pecked at Theon’s hand yet again, causing the boy to switch which hand was holding the chick.

 

“I found him all alone up in a nest in the North Tower—” answered Theon rather bluntly and quickly, and then he cut himself off as he realized what he had just said.

 

“What were you doing up there?” asked Ned as he scrutinized the Ironborn boy.

 

“Raynald and I were just fetching his hat the wind had blown up there!” swore Theon.

 

Ned held up his gaze, but the boy was stubborn and met his gaze.

 

Ned however was not impressed and only focused his look more firmly and at long last Theon gave in and mumbled, “The Raven told me to go up there… he was all alone in his nest… and I thought Maester Luwin might be able to… well, help.”

 

There it was, that Raven. Now he was being used as an excuse for the boys to go to dangerous or forbidden places. This was too much. But Ned knew outright coming out and challenging the notion of “The Raven” would hardly end well. No, he would have to beat around the bush until he could strike.

 

“Theon, when the Raven speaks to you, do you hear it actually speak from its beak or do you hear it inside your head?” asked ned.

 

Ned however was not prepared for Theon’s answer. Suddenly the boy seemed to go completely still and his face became expressionless, as Theon’s pupils contracted into tiny dots.

 

“It won’t work, Lord Stark,” said Theon flatly—and yet the voice did not sound exactly like Theon’s. Instead it sounded like an eerie mix between Theon’s and someone else’s—a voice he had ne’er heard in his life. Suddenly the raven chick started to chirp louder in Theon’s hand. Had it been full grown

 

“What won’t work?” asked Ned as though everything were still quite normal.

 

“Brandon told you to open your mind and listen, and you failed to have done so. So you must listen through other means.”

 

“Theon, what are you speaking of?”

 

“Either eat a seed or stand back and do not interfere,” said Theon and ten suddenly the boy’s eyes rolled up into his head and fell to the floor, the chick still clutched in his hand.

 

It was just then that Luwin returned with Jon and Robb. As the Maester immediately began attending to the recovering Theon, Robb and Jon came up to Ned.

 

Robb was quick to say, almost immediately upon reaching him, “The Raven’s angry with you, father.”

 

Ned felt his blood run cold for a moment. One thing was absolutely clear to Ned. This was no mere child’s fancy. And he could not protect the children in his care from it as he was now. This Raven, if he could do that to Theon… what could he do to Robb or Jon? He would have to find some way to protect his pack. But the only problem was—how could he protect his pack from a threat he could not see nor hear, nor know anything about? That would have to change. That night he made arrangements and took one of the seeds Brandon had given him, himself before bed. It wasn’t long after the crunchy powdery feel coated his mouth that he fell asleep, with Cat watching over him.

 

 

 

It felt like he was falling at an extremely slow rate—as though he were sinking through water but only as though he were doing so through air. Around him was darkness—nothing but an unending horizon. Then all at once he came to a stop, as though he could fall no further into the inky blackness which engulfed him.

 

“So you ate a seed at last,” commented a voice, and Ned turned to see the unending darkness now broken by the looks of a man who almost looked like Den, but with a singular blood red eye—the other being covered with a black eye patch. Long white hair seemed to float amidst a breeze which Ned neither felt nor heard, but saw. The man had milk white skin with a red wine stain birthmark that extended from his throat up to his right cheek which looked somewhat like a raven, drawn in blood. He was a very thin and gaunt looking man, with a grim look to match Ned’s. He was dressed all in black. It was the birthmark though that Ned recognized immediately from the stories Old Nan had told him as a child of one of the old King’s Great Bastards… a kinslayer.

 

_Bloodraven… Brynden Bloodraven Rivers…_

 

“You recognize me, no doubt from the stories you have heard,” said the Great Bastard with a smirk.

 

“Aye…” was Ned’s only response.

 

“Good, _cousin_ ,” answered Brynden Rivers pointedly.

 

Ned replied quickly, “Distant cousin.”

 

“I’d hardly call a first cousin, even if he might be four times removed, distant,” quipped Bloodraven.

 

“Why do I dream of you?” asked Ned.

 

“You wished to know who the Raven was that spoke with your boys as you put it. Well, here I am. I have been waiting for you to listen to Brandon’s advice.

 

“Impossible, you are dead,” answered Ned.

 

“Aye and Nay to that. I am both alive and dead, cousin. Alive in some sense but dead in others,” answered Brynden quite somberly.

 

“If you are the Raven, then I want you to leave the boys be,” growled Ned.

 

“Leave the boys be? What do you take me for, cousin?” asked Bloodraven incredulously.

 

“Do not call me that!” insisted Ned, feeling completely out of his depth.

 

“Would you prefer I call you Ned or Eddard then? Or mayhaps cuz?” quipped Brynden blithely.

 

Ned gave his cousin by his Blackwood great-grandmother a glare

 

Ned repeated, “You will leave the boys be.”

 

Brynden responded, “You are overreacting. I only spoke through Theon to get your attention. Had you eaten the seed in the first place, I would not have done so. Beyond that I have only given the boys little nudges and tidbits here and there to point them in the direction of the paths of their new lives that Denys Arryn has given to us by living. Your wife, though she be a follower of the Andal Faith has many questions of her own which she hounds me and your son Robb with. So you see I am not the only one who bothers the boys about this matter. And while I can tell you that since you now have opened yourself up to listening at long last, I will not do as I did to Theon again. I cannot promise to leave them be, though I will ask you to keep the children from eating any more weirwood seeds without my say so. Their minds are not so ready to accept such an experience—and while journeying to see me I am afraid the four boys got lost in their own minds and I had to lead them out.”

 

“Why not?” rounded Ned, still stuck on the point Brynden had made where he had said he would not leave the children be, the rest flying through his ears like wind through the trees.

 

“Why not, what?” asked Brynden

 

“Why won’t you leave the boys alone?” he clarified for the milky white man.

 

“Because your son Brandon shall take my place one day, that’s why. That one I most certainly cannot promise to leave be.”

 

Ned was confused until he recalled what his great-uncle had said.

 

“The last greenseer…” mumbled Ned.

 

“Aye that is what I am also called, and what your son Bran will be called in time. Our time grows short, cousin. Keep your eyes and ears open and be ready to listen,” said Bloodraven

 

And suddenly Ned felt himself as though he were beginning to rise through water, quicker and faster the higher he went; Bloodraven vanishing into the darkness below him.

 

 

 

When he awoke Ned could see it was early morning—with the sun peeking over the hills to the east. He then saw Cat by his side, asleep and curled up next to him. Her middle was already swelling with yet another wolf cub for their pack—a year earlier than they had planned. There was something off about the room, he couldn’t put his finger upon it, but Ned knew for certain that there was something different about the room. Feeling hot and stifled, Ned threw off the furs, rose, and opened the window to the room, letting in the cool breeze of autumn. He gasped as he did so for then he realized

 

The colors of the world were much brighter than when he’d fallen asleep—however many nights passed they had been. The sounds he could more clearly hear—detecting the slight differences in pitch between the birds which twittered. The smells were far easier to discern and detect—he could smell both the cooks making breakfast in the kitchens and the muck the stable boys were hard at work cleaning out from the stalls in the stables.. His senses were overwhelmingly alive and the world about were as well. The sudden realization of it all felt overwhelming to Ned.

 

“Mmm… come back to bed my love…” moaned Cat’s voice from across the chamber as was their usual morning ritual when he would open the window.

 

Ned, wishing to know how many days he , and eager to once again find comfort in his wife’s arms, complied to her wishes.

 

When he had wrapped his arms about her, suddenly Cat seemed to become more aware of him. She turned to face him while remaining firmly in his arms—careful not to squish their growing child—a daughter he knew she was convinced.

 

“Ned… you’re up,” she said with seeming disbelief, her river blue eyes wide as she took him all in.

 

_That’s not a good sign._

 

“Aye… how many days and nights has it been?” he asked, hoping he had not missed too much time.

 

Catelyn answered in continued amazement, “Ned, you took the seed last night. What took the children seven days… took you seven hours…”


	48. Oberyn III

**OBERYN**  
  
“Why in the name of the Seven Hells, not?” demanded Morys Arryn. Had the man been sitting, Oberyn was convinced he would have banged his fist on the table for emphasis. The young member of the cadet branch of House Arryn out of Gulltown had been eager to recruit according to Doran, who kept him abreast of possible candidates for his network, but from how Morys was apt to pacing and easily frustrated, Oberyn could tell the young man was seeking a more active role than he was currently assigned—and Oberyn could not blame him, chaffing under the restrictions of his position as Lord of Intelligence. Oh how Oberyn longed to simply go out and run a spear through those who threatened his family  & the throne. But he had a nest of little Sand Snakes to look after in addition to Elia and Rhaenys, and as such he could no longer afford to be so rash. But a young man like Morys Arryn, whose blue eyes flashed with a thirst to prove himself and had little to lose and everything to gain? He had no such counter-balances, and as such had the desire to rush headlong into danger.  
  
Oberyn sighed and countered, “Your talents are already suitably employed, Ser Morys.”  
  
“Minding two old men and their artistic nephew is hardly what I’d call suitably employed,” scoffed Morys as he crossed his arms.  
  
“Two old men, who speak out against members of the royal family and who seek to establish an order of knights sworn to fight for the preservation and purity of all Andals. Not to mention their talk of a ‘great crusade’ for the salvation of Westeros,” recalled Oberyn pointedly, taking a sip of the Dornish red. The year he had selected was rather tart. He made a note to avoid the year in the future.  
  
“They mutter such plans as they doze between naps while they drool,” huffed Morys.  
  
“Oh I do not blame you for not seeing Ser Jon Buckwell and the Septon Essy as inconsequential threats. As men, the two are. The problem is the young men who might be attracted to them who would take those ideas and make something of them. That is something that cannot be ignored. And given that over half the realm has some amount of mixed blood, be it Andal and First Men, First Men and Rhoynar, Valyrian and Andal, Valyrian and First Men, or Rhoynar and Andal—there would be unending bloodshed were these ideas be promoted by someone with two coins to run together. So you will continue aiding Ser Buckwell and the Septon in their schemes—and if I hear of any group of knights forming, I’ll know”  
  
“But it all seems rather pointless. I could be in Oldtown, shutting down that inventor’s word press, or chasing after that Septon Lothar who abuses the press to spread his blasphemies against the Seven that he had the gall to nail to the door of the Starry Sept!”  
  
“What is there to do in Oldtown? Lothar has invoked guest right with the Hightowers,” rebuked Oberyn.  
  
 _And I already have people watching him—as does the Faith for that matter. You lack the demeanor to pass yourself off as a servant._  
  
“He is untouchable,” concluded Oberyn.   
  
_Until he leaves Hightower which he must eventually._  
  
“You want recognition, fame, and glory? I’m sorry to say that you have chosen the wrong occupation, Ser Morys. Our work is done best from the shadows. A successful job usually means no one knows that anything truly happened. That can be hard for some people to accept. If you wish to withdraw your services, the choice is entirely yours. The only question that then remains will be what will become of your younger brother, who needs looking after? You are in no fit position to do so, and your family is searching for him…” reminded Oberyn though he was loathe to bring up the subject. This was where Doran had excelled far more than he. But having a venomous reputation did have its advantages.  
  
Ser Morys’ stance became doubtful, and his face grew nervous, “I have not said that I wished to retire from the King’s service.”   
  
Oberyn smiled and declared, “Indeed, and my son would be loathe losing his companion—even if his true name is unknown to him. You will remain with Ser Buckwell and Septon Essy until I tell you otherwise. Undermine their thoughts and be sure the two old men die of irrelevance than as martyrs for a cause.”  
  
It was then that his son and his companion burst into the room. Oberyn saw how Morys and his younger brother Ferys—who went by the name of Deryn to Obi and the rest of the court—saw each other, but wisely did not engage one another in front of Obi, though their furtive glances shared between them were telling.  
  
“Obi, what have I told you about interrupting me when I am in a meeting?!” hissed Oberyn.  
  
“I’m sorry father, but a letter just arrived for you and I thought that it might be important,” insisted the three and ten adolescent, who in many ways still sounded like the boy who had escaped Essos. The letter Obi handed him was addressed to him in an untidy scrawl, and the blank seal lifted ever so slightly from the paper. Clearly it had been opened and resealed.  
  
“Ser, we are finished our discussion. If you could escort my son’s friend here back to his compartments, I would be most appreciative, as I have a few certain things to discuss with him in private,” said Oberyn, and Morys looked gratefully upon Oberyn and took the ten nameday old “Deryn” silently out of the room, closing the door behind him.  
  
“What is it you wished to speak with me about?” asked Obi with a seemingly innocent look. Oberyn wasn’t fooled, he’d given that exact same look to his own mother whenever she’d asked to speak to him in private.  
  
“The seal is broken. What do you expect me to think, Obi?” he asked.  
  
“That Maester Gorman broke it?" suggested his son with a smirk.   
  
Oberyn smiled at seeing his own cheekiness aimed back at him.  
  
“Odd then, that the letters he hands me himself are unbroken,” observed Oberyn pointedly, and he saw his son’s smile fall.  
  
“I thought it might be a letter from Essos about my mother,” answered Obi more honestly this time.  
  
“Your mother is safe,” countered Oberyn.   
  
“She disappeared the night I fled, how can you say that?" demanded Obi.  
  
Oberyn sighed and said, “I know exactly where she is and her health.”  
  
 _Godsdamn Oswell for putting a babe in her belly and then marrying her, the noble fool!_  
  
“Then she is coming to Westeros?” asked Obi gleefully.  
  
“No.”  
  
 _That point Andella had been firm on, that Obi mustn’t know she was at Harrenhal._  
  
 _‘He’s your son now… I have another.’_  


He wanted to disavow his son of longing after his mother—to tell him of how she had sold herself so cheaply and thrown him away, but at moments like this where he looked so… hopeful, he was reminded of himself that he couldn’t do it.

 

When he had delivered Andella to Harrenhal, Oberyn had told young Shella Whent all about Andella, warned her about the kind of cold calculating whore she likely was—that she would have to be to throw away her own child as such. But all Shella saw was the little boy who was her cousin, named for her grandfather, and the exact likeness of his own father. Shella had thanked him for the warning and said she would take care to keep Andella well “penned in” as she put it. It had made the matter of finding a suitable husband for Shella Whent of the utmost importance, and as such Tristan Ryger—whom Oberyn heard good things of from Hoster’s visits to Riverrun—was to be married to Shella Whent in the coming year, when both would be six and ten.

  
“What did you discover instead?” asked Oberyn.  
  
“It was only a bunch of numbers…” muttered Obi with an air of abject dejection.  
  
At this, Oberyn’s hopes grew, but he kept them to himself and tossed the letter aside as though it were of little importance.  
  
“Obi, for this disobedience you are to hand over your spear and join your cousin and younger sisters in their lessons with their septa for a sennight.” Oberyn saw his son’s eyes grow wide, and he knew he’d hit upon the right punishment. And if Obi was as smart as he, he’d learn how to conceal his movements better in the future. He then dismissed his son to bed and then finished his wine before taking the letter and opening it. He smiled, at long last getting the answer he had wanted.  


The following morning in a special session of the Small Council which had only Lord Stark absent in Winterfell, Oberyn laid before the council the important news he’d received. He tossed the letter directly into the middle of the weirwood table, where the sun shone brilliantly upon it from a nearby window.

 

“I fail to see the importance in a series of numbers, Prince Oberyn,” rumbled the King.

 

“Lord Stannis ought to recognize their importance,” countered Oberyn.

 

“They’re coordinates, to somewhere near Tyrosh,” answered Stannis immediately as he took up the letter upon Oberyn’s suggestion.

 

“Aye that they are indeed! Your grace, we at long last have the base from which Euron Greyjoy and his pirate allies are hiding,” said Oberyn as he pulled out a map of the Stepstones which he had brought just for this occasion. He unfurled it upon the weirwood table at which they sat and after smoothing it flat, pointed to a tiny island east of the Grey Gallows and close to the shores of the Disputed Lands, but not the closest.

 

“How can you be sure of this?” asked Denys warily.

 

Oberyn answered triumphantly, “I have sent three separate spies in search of their location without their knowledge, and each has sent back these exact coordinates.”

 

“Then what the bloody hell are we waiting for? Let’s take the blasted island and be done with it!” declared Robert as he pounded his fist onto the island depicted on the map.

 

It was the King’s brother who interrupted, “There is a problem your grace, the island which matches the coordinates is near the border between the Tyroshi claim and the Lyseni claim, if I’m not mistaken.” Oberyn nodded for confirmation and the younger stag continued, “Both cities lay claim to the island and to send ships in without negotiating some sort of deal would be unwise. It would put us at war with more than just Euron Greyjoy. And while we might be able to take Greyjoy by surprise, we do not have a fleet ready to take on a full assault from two of the Free Cities at once.”

 

At this the King growled.

 

“What do you need, Stannis?” roared the King.  
  
“Time and gold,” answered Stannis.   
  
“Two things which are very precious commodities these days,” grumbled Qarlton.  
  
“Lord Treasurer?” asked the King.  
  
“I would need more details, but even so, I would suggest raising the taxes in preparation for this war. A navy and its armed forces do not pay for themselves,” clucked Qarlton.  
  
“Instead of raising taxes flatly across the board, it would be wise to consider what each of the Seven Kingdoms can provide. For instance if a Kingdom can provide more men in order to man your fleet and assist with the invasion, then they should not taxed the full amount. Giving the men instead would count as part of their increased tax. While others who might have the lumber or shipbuilders to assist in building the fleet would be that way of paying part of their taxes,” suggested Hoster.  
  
“And the Kingdoms that can afford neither men nor lumber would then pay the full tax?” questioned Oberyn, sensing danger in Dorne having to pay an increase in gold. Dorne still was recovering from losing as many men as it had in the last war. And when deserts grew trees…  
  
“Aye, each Kingdom is threatened by the instability Greyjoy brings to our realm, so each Kingdom should assist in this war however they can! By gold, by shipbuilders, by lumber, or by men!” declared Robert simply.  
  
“In the meantime your grace, I would suggest sending out ambassadors to Tyrosh and Lys to see if we might be able to…persuade them to overlook our attack, if not seek their assistance?” suggested Oberyn, and to this Robert grudgingly agreed. A letter was to be sent to Lord Stark to inform him of the council’s decisions so that he might begin gathering accounts of the strengths of the men needed for such a campaign.  
  
It was just then that a guard entered, with Nym quick on his heels. Oberyn locked eyes with his dark-haired daughter, who looked rather distressed. Oberyn longed to rise from the weirwood table and comfort his daughter, but he could see she had something else on her mind.  
  
“What is it, man, can’t you see we’re in the midst of an important meeting?” demanded Robert to the guard.  
  
“Your grace, Prince Oberyn’s daughter insisted she speak with you,” began the guard.  
  
“Your grace, my aunt—the Princess Elia… she’s…” began Nym, almost out of breath as she remembered to give a curtsy.  
  
“What is it?” demanded Robert impatiently.  
  
“She’s fallen,” answered Nym.  
  
Oberyn clenched the white weirwood of the table at hearing this.  
  
“Fallen, from where?” asked Denys. Maester Gorman stood immediately.  
  
“From her window… I was sent to fetch Maester Gorman” answered Nym with distress.  
  
Oberyn was up the next moment with only one thought on his mind.  
  
 _Varys._


	49. Arthur V

**ARTHUR**  
  
Their arrival in Winterfell was not what Arthur had expected. The snows were already falling here in the North, and it was only the beginning of winter last he had heard. Luckily the weather did not make travel completely impossible or else they would have likely turned back, but Arthur was quite glad when they at long last rode through the gates of Winterfell to have the promise of a warm hearth without the biting cold of the wind upon his face.  
  
Arthur had anticipated no other day than this one for the last six years. In his mind’s eye, he had imagined Ashara’s son to be just like her—willful, joyous, loving, full of laughter, and caring. He’d have her smile—perhaps their father’s nose if the boy was so lucky—and any superficial resemblance to House Stark could be dismissed as a wolf skin a fallen star had donned. He could see him, now running to meet him—breaking ranks from the proud pack of wolves quickly and easily. At least that’s how he imagined their meeting would be like. The reality was somewhat different.  
  
Their guards were quick to be off their horses as soon as they were able. When Sandor and he rode into the courtyard of the castle, the horns having long since given its occupants fair warning of their arrival, his eyes were distracted by the presence of the new Royal Standard of the Crowned Stag flying atop the towers in addition to the grey wolf of Winterfell. For an instant, Arthur dreaded he would have to share his visit with the King—a man whom he had hoped never to have the… pleasure of seeing again. However his sight soon made it clear that the only people beyond servants dressed in Baratheon black and gold were a small boy with black hair and grey eyes, and a heavily pregnant woman Arthur instantly recognized as Lyanna—the Queen. Any sign of King Hammer was lacking. The Queen and her son were the first and most prominent of the greeting party—as befit their station.  
  
Lyanna gave him a wicked smile upon seeing what was likely his shocked face.  
  
“Your Grace,” Arthur obliged, upon dismounting his horse, with a less than graceful kneel. Sandor mimicked him soon after without one of his complaints about having to kneeling in the “fucking freezing snow” as he’d complained about ever since they’d come north of the Neck. Their servants looked after the horses following the Winterfell servants to the stables.  
  
“Rise my good men, it’s too damned cold to be kneeling in the snow,” commented Lyanna immediately and motioned for them to rise—much to Arthur’s relief and Sandor’s amusement. Likely the overgrown pup was admiring the Queen’s use of coarse language, given the wide-eyed expression he now donned.  
  
“Master Arthur and… Master Clegane, I believe?” asked the Queen.  
  
“Aye, your grace,” answered Sandor rather eagerly.  
  
“I must say that it is a surprise to see you once again, Master Arthur. This is my son, Prince Durran,” beckoned Lyanna to her obviously bored boy whose attention had been caught by one of his cousins near his own age and the two were laughing about something that small boys were apt to laugh about. Lyanna met her princely son’s eyes and with her look alone admonished his lack of decorum—which Arthur secretly found rather amusing given the she-wolf’s own history of honoring decorum.  
  
Arthur bowed to the three namedays prince, as did Sandor and Lyanna made excuses about not bringing out her daughter, Lyarra, giving the weather as excuse. It was then that Lord Stark and his wife greeted both him and Sandor. Lord Stark was gruff but not stand-offish and Lady Stark herself was polite. Arthur felt himself shake with anticipation as he worked his way down the pack of Starks, first Robb the heir, then his brother Rickon who had been exchanging silly faces with his princely cousin all the while—much to his mother’s chagrin. The youngest two Stark pups, Bran and Arya were said to be inside with their cousin Lyarra. Then came Lord Stark’s extended pack, Lords Greyjoy and Westerling, who both looked old enough to begin being considered squired out by Arthur’s approximation. Young Lord Raynald Westerling himself could not help but stare at both Arthur and Sandor—but Sandor especially, causing his overgrown would-be squire to growl,  
  
“Haven’t you ever seen a scar before?” growled Sandor.  
  
“I wasn’t looking at that,” retorted the lordling only half convincingly.  
  
Arthur gave Sandor a warning look, and the overgrown pup sighed and answered sardonically, “Of course you weren’t.”  
  
  
Lady Jeyne Westerling came immediately after her brother the Lord and gave a respectful nod to Arthur and looked up at Sandor with wonder and awe in her eyes.  
  
It was then at the end—though not the very end—of the line at long last he saw him, Jon, his nephew. He was standing next to another boy who Arthur had to look twice at to believe he wasn’t seeing a ghost from his own past as the boy standing next to Jon looked quite uncannily like him when he’d been the boy’s age.  
  
To see Jon now, Arthur at first could barely see anything of Ashara in her son. He had her glossy dark hair—the same unmanageable waves that she had grown out and tamed with oils but her son kept in a shorter cut which was unruly and somewhat messy. The shape of the eyes might have had a hint of Arthur’s mother about them, but it had been so long since his mother’s passing that he could not be sure completely. But at once and immediately despite these little hints of the Dayne in Jon, what was overwhelmingly obvious the moment anyone laid eyes on him was how much of a Stark he looked.  
  
This though did not shake Arthur the most about his nephew.  
  
“Uncle Arthur,” greeted Jon as though they had met before—well they had, but Jon would have been far too young to recall that.  
  
“Jon…” said Arthur and he moved to pick the boy up in a hug which was less than easily done. The lad sat uncomfortably in his arms, but after a moment eased into the hug he was receiving. Unnoticed by Arthur, Lady Stark had already begun shepherding the rest of the children and her goodsister back inside and out of the cold.  
  
That was one moment which Arthur wished wouldn’t end, but it finally did when his nephew began to squirm in his grasp and Arthur obliged by setting him down.  
  
“Did you bring Dawn, Uncle?” asked Jon rather eagerly.  
  
Arthur was stunned by his question, and only fit to say that he had not when he recovered some semblance of his senses.  
  
At this, Jon looked perplexed as he asked, “Why not?”  
  
“Your uncle has only just arrived, Jon, give him some time to get his bearings,” interrupted Lord Stark, and Jon immediately drew himself up into a very proper bearing, nodded in agreement to his father, and said very solemnly to Arthur that he hoped to speak with him further at the evening meal. In no instant than in that moment was Arthur more convinced that the star under the skin of a wolf he had expected to be greeted by—the boy with all of Ashara’s love and zest for life—was more a wolf with the fiery tail of a falling star. He was a wolf cub first and foremost… that he had Dayne blood was only incidental. Such a realization felt like a cold spike of iron through his gut. It was like watching Ashara die once again before his eyes.  
  
Lord Stark however took his shock for other reasons, “I did not know how best to tell him of how you… lost Dawn.”  
  
Arthur almost felt himself begin to burn in response to the mere hint that having Aster take the sword from him was equitable to having misplaced such a sword. But if he had learned anything from his last duel with Lord Stark and Sandor’s recent escapade it was that letting hot heads prevail did no one any good.  
  
As such, Arthur replied, almost coolly, “What is there to tell? I broke my vow, I… lost the sword.”  
  
It was then that Lord Stark surprised him by saying, “I thought you might wish to have the opportunity to tell your story how you saw fit.”  
  
Arthur felt shame immediately begin to crawl deep into him at hearing that—for looking into Lord Stark’s eyes he could see the man meant it. He wanted, it seemed, for Jon to have as good a relationship with him, as he had with Jon, and for that Arthur was grateful.  
  
Thankfully Lord Stark had moved on by this point to speak with an obviously awkward Sandor, “So this is what’s become of the boy of Clegane’s Keep.”  
  
“Do I meet your approval?” asked Sandor cheekily, and Arthur, regaining his sense shot Sandor a look.  
  
“My approval?” asked Lord Stark.  
  
“He misconstrues what I told him. I merely said that you were interested in seeing what had become of him since the end of the Rebellion,” answered Arthur quickly enough.  
  
“Indeed,” stated Lord Stark and the subject was most decidedly dropped as Lord Stark noted that the wind was picking up and they were shown to their chambers by servants in Stark livery. He was told that if he wished it a hot bath could be drawn up for him, and Arthur said he would be so inclined. It wasn’t long until servant women had rolled up a shallow bathing tub and begun carrying buckets of hot steaming water to fill the tub with. Arthur undressed before the water had been completely filled and scrubbed at his dirty and wind bitten skin with lye. The one servant girl—a pretty girl who was blond of hair and hazel of eye—who went by the name of Lyra, took special notice of Arthur as he scrubbed his well worn body. He caught her stares lingering longer than they should and wondered what he would have done with the girl at a younger age than he was now. As his thoughts drifted to his days of misspent youth, they eventually left the few women he had known during that time and settled more firmly on Ashara. And satisfaction turned to loneliness, as he felt that she seemed further away from him than before.  
  
The evening meal was loud and boisterous with all the children eagerly hounding both Arthur and even Sandor with questions about the lands south of Winterfell and the North. Sandor seemed more at ease after having what was likely a hot bath—his first since having left Clegane’s Keep, and the children had only asked about his scar once more before they pressed on with questions about the Westerlands and what made them different from the North. And when that subject grew dry the two Lordlings and eldest of the children began to speak of sparring and Sandor found his more natural place in the conversation as his opinion on positions was consulted as if he were an expert—which Sandor at first felt uncomfortable with but with the passage of the evening increasingly felt more at home giving his advice it seemed—or he had drank enough of the spiced Winter ale to not care anymore. Either or.  
  
Arthur found the spiced Winter ale much to his liking—he had it watered down, but even so it tasted so well on his palate he could not help but have more than a few mugs throughout the meal.  
  
“You haven’t asked me a single question about your mother,” commented Arthur to Jon when the boy had taken a brief intermission to take a bite of his savory side of beef between asking questions about Dawn. He had already gone over the length, the weight, how it glowed a brilliant white color, and so on. In fact the more Jon pressed him for answers about Dawn, the more he was reminded of a little boy from so long ago who had asked many similar questions and proclaimed to his brother:  
  
 _Aster, when I’m big enough **I** will wield Dawn!_  
  
All the while the boy who looked quite like he had at his age continued to stare at Arthur throughout the meal.  
  
“What’s there to know? She died not long after I was born and I came to live with father,” answered Jon casually as if that was the only fact that mattered about Ashara.  
  
Arthur took a long swig at his spiced ale, hoping to gather his thoughts so he could  
  
“Your mother, Jon was a very special lady—” began Arthur.  
  
“She was friends with Princess Elia—Lady Catelyn told me,” interrupted Jon quickly.  
  
“Aye, but it was more than that. She was a kind and loving person, Jon, and people who are genuinely that way are quite hard to find in this world” Arthur stressed. He might not have ever said that to her face, but it was no less true, Arthur thought.  
  
But Jon it seemed did not wish to speak of his mother as it was then that Robb had risen from the table and come over to Jon to drag him away to show him something—and Jon left quite quickly and easily, saying that he would be back soon. This left Arthur with little to do but stab at his beef with his knife and drink his ale. He should have stopped with the ale—truly he should, but it tasted well on his palate and he was of course only drinking watered down ale—half as much as everyone else. He could drink more and still not be affected, he justified to himself.  
  
It was thus nearly an unholy surprise when he found he was no longer at the table and realized that he had somehow managed to cozy himself with a mug and a flagon of ale seated by one of the roaring hearths of the Great Hall. And seated across from him was the Queen.  
  
“Just realized where you were?” she commented slyly.  
  
“Aye…” admitted Arthur, quickly putting down the half drunken mug and pushed it to the far end of the bench he sat on so it was not easily within reach.  
  
The Queen laughed at the sight.  
  
He started, feeling almost embarrass to ask, “I did not make a—”  
  
“A what? A fool of yourself? Hardly. The meal went on as it usually does with my goodsister spending what time she isn’t eating scolding the boys and cooing over Lady Jeyne as though she were the Maiden embodied. When I saw you had drunk so much I asked you to come sit with me by the fire, and thus we are here,” explained the Queen, and it was then that Arthur noticed that most of those who had eaten the evening meal had departed the Great Hall, with mostly only the servants left to clean up after.  
  
Arthur at that moment wondered how she had known he had drunk so much when he realized the last time he had spoken with Lyanna he had been completely pissed. She would know better than anyone when he had drunk too much and what it looked like.  
  
“Thank you… your grace,” mumbled Arthur.  
  
“Call me Lyanna for now. You don’t just drink to excess, Arthur, for no reason,” began Lyanna, she then sighed and asked, “Is Jon not everything you hoped he would be?”  
  
Arthur did not know where his compulsion to speak bluntly came from but before he could think of a reply, he had already said, “No.”  
  
“I thought as much… seeing the two of you speak during the meal as you did. You looked as though he were driving a spear right through your heart,” said Lyanna.  
  
 _Aye that was what it felt like…_  
  
But he gave no outward acknowledgment of this sentiment, and so Lyanna continued, “I would not have put such great expectations upon your first encounter with our nephew,” commented Lyanna calmly before adding, “He does not know you yet, but given some time I am sure you two will be close.”  
  
“He reminds me of myself somewhat… all I cared about at his age was about Dawn… and he already clamors after that sword,” said Arthur ruefully.  
  
It was just then that Arthur registered the sound of little feet clad in boots padding across the stone floor and arriving between him and Lyanna. Arthur took a moment’s delay to look up and see the boy who looked much like him. He forgot his name—though Jon had been insistent on introducing him at the start of the meal.  
  
“What is it, Den? Are you—” began Lyanna as though she did not expect the boy to answer her first question.  
  
Instead Arthur was surprised to see the boy turn to him and asked in a quiet voice that seemed almost frail, “Are you my father?”  
  
Arthur was stunned by the question. Here was a little boy whom he hardly knew asking him with eyes almost pleading for him to say yes—eyes which could have easily been his own. It was likely how much ale he had drunk for he once again found himself speaking before he could gather his thoughts, and it hardly registered on his mind what he had said in response as the boy leaped upon him and hugged him as he had imagined Jon would have done upon his arrival. For a moment, Arthur closed his eyes and pretended it was Jon who he was hugging. A servant called for the boy—Den, that was his name—to be off to bed, and the boy promised to come speak with him in the morning and ran off rather gleefully. Arthur felt sad at having the boy leave and watched as he disappeared from the Hall, feeling once again the pain of Ashara’s death. It was then that Arthur turned to his companion to see that the Queen was slack jawed.  
  
“Methinks I see the royal spittle,” teased Arthur.  
  
At that Lyanna took control of herself, closed her mouth and wiped her mouth.  
  
She recovered and said, “Pardon me… but I have been at Winterfell for nearly two moons and in all that time that boy has not once uttered a single word to anyone.”  
  
“Mayhaps he simply had nothing to say?” proffered Arthur as he rose—saw the half filled mug he was abandoning and feeling that one last little swig wouldn’t hurt he finished the ale, begged his leave from Lyanna and then after wrapping himself up in his cloak he staggered from the Great Hall to his chambers in the Great Keep. He managed to find his way relatively easily and came upon that pretty serving girl… Lyra, aye, Lyra was her name, as she was finishing lighting his fire in his hearth. She was surprised to see him, but not as much as he was when his desire to kiss the girl turned real. His memory grew hazy not long after that as the crackling of the fire intensified.  
  
Arthur awoke completely naked and huddled deep under his furs in a ball for warmth. He had such a headache from the night before he was seeing double, and from what little he could make out in the dim grey light of early morning the clothes he had worn the night before were strewn carelessly about the room as if he had simply tossed them off in a desire to get to bed as quickly as possible.  
  
Arthur knew from prior experience that while sleep may help ease the pain of the morning’s curse, the best cure was to drink plenty of water. As such Arthur rejoiced to see a jug of water by his beside table. He knew the water was likely meant for him to wash his face if he so pleased, but Arthur simply drank from the jug—feeling the water run down from his mouth and over his chin as he did so, causing wherever the water touched to become cold in the chilly air of his room. The fire that had been lit the night before was now down to embers and the servant who was supposed to light another before he woke either had not yet come to his room or wasn’t due until a slightly earlier hour.  
  
He took a brief break from his water treatment and felt his mind steady somewhat as admonished himself for once again falling to the easy temptations of drink. He thought he had been safe with the watered ale, so much so that he had drunk more than he would have of wine—or mayhaps as much as he would have of wine. Gods it was confusing. He drank more water and then to calm himself he drew himself back under his furs and drifted somewhere between waking and sleep for the next few hours. When the sun more clearly was up and Arthur felt the pressure to relieve himself. He fought with the damned cold and made his way through the chilly room to the slop bucket and relieved himself—feeling part of his headache drain as he did. Arthur then dressed himself and it was then as he finished pulling on his own boots that a middle aged woman carrying a bundle of kindling came into the room. Seeing him awake she asked if he wished to have a fire—and he said he would pass on the privilege for the time being.  
  
Arthur was hardly out of his room when he was tackled almost immediately by a small body which grabbed at his hand. Surprised, Arthur looked down to see the boy who looked much like him having grabbed his hand.excitedly. Arthur was taken aback by the boy’s sudden affection before he hazily recalled the night before being treated to a hug from the boy for answering a question… but what question?  
  
He was not left in the dark for long as the boy asked, “Where are you going, father?”  
  
 _Father?!_  
  
At that word Arthur froze.  
  
Arthur pulled his hand from Den’s and said warily, “I believe there’s some mistake, my boy. I’m not your father.”  
  
At this the boy, Den—yes that’s what his name was he dimly recalled—looked at him with much confusion before saying, “But last night you said—”  
  
Gods in his haze induced by ale had he? Yes he had. There was no other possible explanation. And then he recalled what Queen Lyanna had said of the boy not speaking before now.  
  
He took his miniature by the shoulder and said, “Den, come with me.”  
  
He led the boy back to his chambers—as much of a mess that they were, they would be a better place to speak than in the passageway outside of them. He had the boy sit down and he painstakingly tried to correct his mistake from the night before—but the boy seemed adamant in his belief, insisting that since they looked enough alike, like Jon did to Lord Stark, that they therefore must be father and son. Only the truth settled the matter, a truth which he seemed to recall as he remembered Lord Stark taking not just Jon away, but the fake Aegon that Varys had been so desirous to obtain.  
  
“Den, I cannot possibly be your father, but I had wanted to be.”  
  
All right a helpful spin on the truth.  
  
The boy sniveled, “You w—wanted to be?”  
  
“Aye. My sister, Jon’s mother, found you when you were very young, and she and I were to raise you as my son, alongside Jon.”  
  
That indeed had been the plan. That the plan had involved calling the boy Aegon Targaryen at the time was inconsequential.  
  
“You did?” asked Den  
  
“Aye…”  
  
“Why didn’t you?” snapped Den.  
  
“Jon’s mother… died… and Lord Stark wished to take you both in.”  
  
At this the boy, with tears streaming down his face, seemed to comprehend something of what he said, as he then asked, “Do you still want to?”  
  
Arthur knew what the boy needed to hear, but he also knew that it was far different from what he wanted to hear.  
  
“What of Lord Stark? Isn’t he like a father to you?” probed Arthur.  
  
The boy admitted without looking up once, “Aye… but I don’t look like him or Lady Stark… it’s not the same.”  
  
It was then Arthur knew there would be no getting around it without major heartbreak—and the poor boy had suffered enough on his account. It was partly his fault and he should fix his mistakes, and so he said, “I can be _a_ father to you, Den, if you want.”  
  
Den at hearing this ran to Arthur, who once again had the wind knocked out of him, by the small little boy’s tight clinging hug.  
  
After a morning meal spent with much of Winterfell in complete awe at a once again vocal Den—well everyone except Robb and Jon, Arthur noticed—Arthur decided that it would be a good thing for him and Sandor to spar for a bit. And so they went out into the snowy practice yard to spar, using live steel. It was as much an opportunity to practice fighting in the cold and snow as it was to keep them in shape—and both Arthur and Sandor found both the cold and the snow to bring new and different elements to their spar. They were joined after an hour or so had passed by the two lordlings, Theon and Raynald, who had come with wooden practice swords and were surprised to see the yard already in use. After finishing their latest match, Arthur offered use of the space to the young boys who looked on flabbergasted at what they had seen. And not a moment later were both clamoring with eagerness to learn this move or that trick that they had seen either Arthur or Sandor perform. Arthur would have indulged them in a small way, if it were not for the appearance of a white whiskered knight Lord Stark obviously kept in order to train them in the basics of sword fighting. As such, Arthur bowed out gracefully to the elder knight and urged Sandor to do much the same with a look. Sandor however offered to spar with the boys if they could provide him with a wooden sword. Arthur was almost in the midst of grabbing Sandor out of the practice yard when he was interrupted.  
  
“A fine idea, Master Clegane, I’m sure my charges could use with a good challenge of their skills to motivate them to take their lessons more seriously,” added the whiskered knight.  
  
Arthur was surprised, but did nothing more to impede the actions and excused himself to the Great Keep, claiming the cold—not without much reason—was getting to his hot Dornish blood.  
  
He was surprised to meet Lord Stark at the entrance to the Great Keep, who seemed pleasantly surprised to have run into him and asked if he would be free to join him in his solar.  
  
After determining that Lord Stark’s solar was colder than he’d anticipated—enough to warrant keeping a cloak on—Arthur settled down in a chair by the fire next to Lord Stark, who seemed troubled about something. To begin with they started by talking about Jon, though Arthur could see it was not the most pressing concern on his mind.  
  
“Could he actually become the Sword of the Morning?” asked Lord Stark.  
  
“Any warrior who had Dayne blood in their veins has a right to wield the sword,” answered Arthur honestly.  
  
“I see…”  
  
“But if he truly wants to be considered, he must spent part of his time at Starfall—there are certain traditions and secrets which will only ever be passed on at Starfall which a Sword of the Morning must know that he can learn nowhere else.”  
  
And it was there that they ended their conversation on Jon. Lord Stark then stood and paced a bit, obviously bothered about something. When the man had worked through whatever it was that had been hampering his speech, he asked “Arthur, have you given any consideration to what you would do after you finished training Sandor Clegane?”  
  
To be honest, he had not. All his thoughts, his concerns had been aimed towards getting to see Jon once again.  
  
“If I may be so bold, I would like to suggest something to you. I was observing your sparring earlier and I must say that you have done well by young Clegane. As such, I am in need of a man well trained as a warrior to help with the younger knights of the kingdom. The old system of squiring, while useful in promoting family interests, does not aid in keeping the unity of our the defense of the realm from outside threats…”  
  
“What exactly are you offering?” asked Arthur cautiously.  
  
He got to the point, “As Master of Arms and Men of the Realm I would appoint you as my assistant to help codify one training style that all knights should learn regardless of their house status.”  
  
“That is quite an… ambitious project,” began Arthur, but he was interrupted at that moment by the entrance of the Maester with an urgent letter from King’s Landing for Lord Stark. Arthur stood and offered to leave, but Lord Stark asked for him to stay a moment so they could continue speaking after. Whatever the news held in the letter, Arthur knew it the instant Lord Stark opened it, that it would not be good.  
  
At long last Lord Stark finally said, “Euron Greyjoy has sacked and burnt Plankytown.”


	50. Jaime IV

**JAIME**

 

Nearly three years had passed since he had been sent to deal with the complaint of the Westerlander woman to the present. After his return to the capital, Jaime had been confided to his bed due to the illness that he had fought nearly the entire way from the Westerlands—delaying his return to King’s Landing and greatly weakening his constitution so that when he finally rode through the Lion Gate he collapsed from his horse in exhaustion. He was taken immediately to the Red Keep and put under Maester Gorman’s care. The fat Tyrell man had run his thickening fingers all over his body, eventually declaring—after examining the odd colored splotches that had appeared on the inside of his mouth—that he had ingested some poison powder he gave some name to.

 

“Not enough to kill you, Ser Jaime, but enough to make you quite sick,” had been Gorman’s conclusion.

 

And Jaime knew exactly how he’d consumed the poison. He had been hale and hearty until he’d taken wine from his aunt. Not long after that, he had begun to feel ill, but had ignored the early signs Gorman had listed: dryness to his mouth, chills, and rolling waves of pain, thinking them the sign of contracting a simple cold. No, his aunt had poisoned him and once he met with the king after nearly a fortnight and a half of recovering he understood the move she had actually been making completely.

 

A messenger from House Frey of Feastfires had been sent right after him and had already met with the king, expressing their outrage over the viscous libel which had been spread against their good name. The whole song and dance about villages and unrestrained guards had been issued and it took Jaime some considerable effort to disavow the king of the notions he had been led to believe. It wasn’t until he’d said that his aunt had all but outright admitted she’d had the children murdered and argued that as the King that he had a moral duty to ensure the protection and peace for all his people that Jaime felt he had at last gotten through to the hard-headed Stag.

 

“Even if what my aunt now claims to be the truth did occur, she failed in her own moral duty, as did mine uncle acting as her liege lord,” concluded Jaime.

 

King Robert seemed to ponder this thought for a moment before answering. Almost immediately Jaime regretted ever framing the issue as a moral problem.

 

He decreed, “The Faith says I don’t consult them enough, well, here’s something for ‘em to chew on! Take my concerns on the issue to the High Septon and see what he has to say as the Seven’s chosen representative on earth.”

 

Jaime had hated how easily Robert had simply passed off the issue, but then he likely did not see the murdered babes as his subjects—not when their fathers had brutally killed and raped as they had. It was hard for Jaime as well—but then he felt sorry more for the women he had seen than their infant babes. Their grief had felt overwhelmingly real to him.

 

_“_ _They slaughtered them all. All my babes…_ _”_

 

And so, with a heavy heart, Jaime took his suit to the Great Sept of Baelor. The new High Septon Bones however was busying himself with heresy trials, bringing before him anyone with the barest hint of sympathy for the “Faith of One” as it was being called these days. For a while, this was restricted solely to Septons and Septas who expressed even the most hesitant of agreement with any of the Whytclyffian Dictatys as his principles were being called were seized by members of the Holy Hundred and brought before the High Septon himself. From the few trials Jaime had sat through in hopes of catching the High Septon as he either arrived or left—but the man seemed to neither eat, defecate, nor sleep during the daylight hours of the trial—or at least he did not pause the trials to do any of those things that a normal person might. Jaime did not like High Septon Bones—well that was an understatement. Jaime felt positively disturbed by the man. From Jaime’s perspective, the man seemed to derive energy and vitality from the trials, growing sprier with each passing interrogation and condemnation.

 

When the High Septon had run out of Septons and Septas to bully—either back into the “loving” arms of the “True Faith” or condemned to death, the trials then turned to a more sinister route. It all began with the year long trial of Lord Gyles Rosby. For having sheltered Septon Hesse, his “strength of faith” was being “examined”. He was not officially tried or convicted of anything, but Jaime thought that the long tiring process might have ended sooner if it had. Rosby was a “guest of the Faith” during that year, and had grown thinner and frailer with each passing day he remained a “guest”. His every actions were scrutinized and examined for possible hints of Whytclyffian Dictatys. If he stumbled in reciting his prayers, if he failed to exemplify each of the Seven in his actions, all that and more were brought before the court that was not a court and debated his fate. But that was not the most pitiful part of the trial that was not a trial—the most pitiful part was how Lord Gyles’ young ward, Lyam Margate, came each and every day to the trial with a man that had been likely entrusted with his safety while Lord Gyles was a “guest of the Faith”, so that he could see and speak to his warder. Ultimately Lord Gyles’ faith and fate was decreed to be “faithful” when a copy of Septon Lothar’s Forty-Nine Articles was received by the High Septon.

 

And as such the High Septon would publicly read, analyze and disprove what Septon Lothar of Oldtown had written, examining all angles of it and the potential places from the Seven Pointed Star where Lothar would have erred in his “understanding”. This project was soon turning into a book all its own that several scribes were taking note of. The only problem was that High Septon Bones typically spent one week on a single article. It was during a rather vigorous debate over the meaning of the twenty-first article: _"The Faithful who passes over a man in need and then gives money to a Septon for the security of his soul, has not bought his salvation but the wrath of the Creator."_ Jaime decided that he could not wait any longer. As such the High Septon allowed one day in his booked schedule to hear his case.

 

“But of what faith were the fathers of these children?” asked High Septon Bones pointedly.

 

Jaime answered honestly but also with little elaboration, “Their fathers, as far as I know, worshiped the Drowned God, but their mothers usually were good faithful women as far as I could tell.”

 

“But they were not conceived within the sanctities of blessed marriage and as such are subject not to the Seven. As stated in the Father’s book of laws, since they were born outside of marriage, they were not bathed in holy water thus they did not receive the Seven as their creators. It is of little importance what their fate was, for they were most certainly not among the faithful, and it is not a crime to cleanse Westeros of the faithless. Rather than be admonished, I believe Lord Frey of Feastfires should be declared a defender of the Faith!” proclaimed High Septon Bones from his crystal throne.

 

What little shred of respect Jaime had had for the Faith died with that decree.

 

Knowing that he had wasted three years of his life fulfilling the wishes of the King, Jaime knew that upon hearing this proclamation, that Robert would embrace it as his own thoughts with the addendum that the babes were children of an illegal Faith, and thus outside his protection, and thus acceptable to see dead without and of the consequences normally attached to child slaughterers. To wash the horrid taste of disdain from his mouth, Jaime slipped into a tavern and drank to forget his conscience—for what good had it brought him?

 

In the tavern Jaime was surprised to run into Lord Addam Marbrand, the current Lord of Ashemark, and his friend from childhood when Addam had served as a page at Casterly Rock. They embraced as brothers, and Jaime for once was glad to see a Westerlands face which reminded him

 

“What brings you to King’s Landing, Addam?” inquired Jaime, good naturedly.

 

Addam wiped away a few loose strands of his copper hair from his face and said honestly, “To petition the King about those damned high taxes he’s imposed.”

 

“The crown needs coin,” reminded Jaime as he took a sip of his own mug.

 

“Aye, but does the crown have to add a second tax—higher than the usual on top of the first?” grumbled Addam.

 

“I do not see why you complain so much, seeing as you pay your taxes to Casterly Rock,” Jaime said blithely.

 

At this Addam seemed rather furious, saying, “Aye and Casterly Rock sends their share to the King. If the King adds a second tax, your uncle comes to us lords to make up the difference… and it doesn’t stop there—your Aunt is takes it a step further by then taxing her smallfolk until they bleed dry, confiscating items when they cannot afford to pay in coin. I’ve had a carpenter come to me complaining that his knives were taken—and a blacksmith spoke with me on the road about how his anvil was taken. I ask you, how is a blacksmith supposed to work without an anvil or a carpenter without a knife? It is impossible. And your aunt does another trick on top of that, collecting far more wealth than she needs to pay Casterly Rock. And she, I’m sad to say, is not the only one. If the King knew what these lords did in his name...”

 

As he said the last of this he slammed his mug down upon the small table they shared. His sentiments of the unjust tax were toasted to by the occupants of a table nearby which housed Ser John Buckwell and his two usual drinking companions—a Septon and a Gulltown Arryn.

 

Jaime, in no mood to think the King misled by his advisors, ordered another flagon for Addam and himself to enjoy and reminisce over boyhood mischief together. They departed as the man from the Gulltown Arryns struck up a conversation with Addam, leaving Jaime to stagger back to the Red Keep.

 

To his knowledge, Addam never came before the King himself, and it was only a few days later when word arrived by raven of a group of unarmed peasants who were on the march for Casterly Rock.


	51. Stafford

**STAFFORD**

 

As he rode with his guard along the winding path which led to Boarshead Hall, Stafford took in the fresh and crisp air of the Westerland countryside. He sighed contentedly, feeling that at last he could relax to some degree. Single-handedly he had managed to turn the Westerlands around from the disheveled mess that his cousin and goodbrother had left them in, towards a road of prosperity that would bloom and prosper in the coming years. Before the year would be out, Lannisport would be finished being rebuilt with an enclosed inner harbor protected by walls higher than the last. The noble and knightly marriage alliances he had brokered had worked out tremendously well with a whole generation of children ready to emerge and begin populating the decimated Westerlands in a decade or so. In the early years he had relieved the feudal due a certain percentage for each child born to smallfolk and merchants. Due to rising taxes those reliefs had to have been withdrawn in the past two years or so, but nonetheless the first few years had seen a veritable boom in the number of babes being born—there even had been rumors of what few men having been available being shared amongst a village of women—but these bawdy rumors he assumed were smallfolk tales and nothing more. Mining productivity and farming had after a short education for the remaining women, been picked back up as Westerland women adjusted to the harder labor. The only hang ups of course came from the King requiring so much money for taxes, but that was something that couldn’t be helped—not with rumors of war soon to break out, thank god on the other side of the continent. There were rumors of smallfolk discontent that he had heard from House Clegane, but when weren’t the smallfolk discontent?

 

Nonetheless, Stafford could not help but feel that all his achievements would be wasted on his sister’s last male child—the one that had killed her. No matter if the child had meant to or not, he had done the deed all the same. The youth had his sister’s clever mind—that had been obvious to him from the start, but Stafford felt it rather a shame that it would be him that would inherit the fruits of all of Stafford’s hard labor, instead of his son Daven—his heir to Kayce, the castle and lands that he had taken for himself, who he had seen recently married to Darlessa Marbrand Lannister. The boy was the spitting image of everything to expect from a lion—a fierce warrior, loyal to the family, and proud upon the field of battle, and Darlessa had done beautifully, giving him a grandson named after his own father, Jason. If his nephew Jaime did not live, Daven in Stafford’s opinion would be the golden sun of House Lannister. That he should only have Kayce, while his other twisted nephew should have the Westerlands… that was unpardonable. At times, he could not help but fume over the situation. He found it difficult to love Tyrion. There was just something too underhanded and very devious like his father about him which made him question whether he might not be handing the Westerlands back to the same sort of chaos which drove it to ruin with foolish pride. Daven certainly wouldn’t bring it to ruin—of that Stafford was sure. But even if his dwarf of a nephew were to be gotten rid of, there was Cersei and her swelling belly with Clifton’s heirs in her to contend with first. At the time he had promised Clifton Cersei’s hand with the hopes that the young man might be more amenable to his plans concerning the boy. But he had failed him, and as such delayed the marriage for as long as he could—hoping to wait out Cersei’s prime years of fertility—but a few moons ago the damn girl had gone and married Clifton anyway, even after swearing she wouldn’t take Jeyne’s place—whatever that meant. And after her, Kevan’s young son Lancel stood to inherit. Thank god Lady Dorna had only given birth to the one boy. Since she’d been but a Swyft before jumping up to be Kevan’s wife, he’d had her married off to Ser Preston Greenfield, who had inherited Greenfield from the deceased Ser Garth.

 

“My Lord,” called out one of his men, and Lord Stafford Lannister of Kayce returned his attention to the rough and meandering road they were traveling upon. They were nearing the crest of a hill, and two of his outriders had ridden back to him to tell him of how far they were to the nearest inn or other such place.

 

“What is it Kenyth?” asked Stafford his mind still hazily wishing to be trapped within itself.

 

“There’s a collection of smallfolk up ahead, about eighty score or so,” confirmed his armored outrider.

 

Stafford was alarmed. That was well over a thousand smallfolk, “That many?! I do not seem to recall a feast day—and there is no Sept in these parts for many miles…”

 

Kenyth continued, “They’re coming this way, my lord; we’ll soon be upon them.”

 

“What of their purpose, Kenyth? Did you not think to discover their purpose for leaving their lands?!” demanded Stafford.

 

Here Roger, his other outrider, broke in and stated, “We did not have to go very near them to understand that. There are two men leading them—one is a Septon, the other seems an up jumped laborer. The Septon was shouting about how before the Andals took Westeros there being no gentlemen.”

 

“Rebels then,” spat Stafford.

 

“The most peculiar sort of rebels—not to carry weapons,” commented Kenyth.

 

Stafford smirked and said, “Foolish rebels, then.”

 

Roger once again interjected, “My lord, the King’s law states that rebels are those who are armed with evil intent, and pillage the innocent.”

 

“Do not they have evil intent if they follow a Septon who proclaims such nonsense?” countered Stafford.

 

“But they are not armed,” reminded Kenyth.

 

“Is not a stick or a rock an armament to the smallfolk? Look around you Sers, there be plenty of arms for them about us,” and with that Stafford rode forward to teach these rebels a lesson in loyalty. Mayhaps he might even get his own song written about him! The Fierce Lion, mayhaps? No, the Loyal Lion! Emboldened as he heard the yet unwritten verses playing in his mind, Stafford rode ahead of his guards who were taken aback by his sudden burst to ride ahead into the oncoming throng of rebels. He would leave a legacy to outshine his goodbrother as his father was remembered well against Tytos.

 

He rode over the crest of the hill they were climbing, galloped down the valley and then up the crest of the next hill. And there in the not far off distance he saw the approaching crowd of smallfolk.

 

At this distance he could hear the Septon’s cries quite clearly: “From the beginning all men by nature were created alike, and our bondage or servitude came in by the unjust oppression of naughty men. For if the Creator would have had any smallfolk from the beginning, he would have appointed who should be small, and who be lordly. And therefore I exhort you to consider that now the time is come, appointed to us by the Creator, in which ye may if ye will cast off the yoke of bondage, and recover liberty!”

 

“My lord!” called out one of his guards as they caught up. Yes he would ride forth with his guards—it would be the better way to approach such a crowd. His guards were not long in catching up to him, and his bay colored stallion appreciated the chance to catch his breath.

 

“We will disperse these rebels, good Sers!” called out Stafford once his men had assembled, and they rode forth towards the approaching throng, Stafford confidently leading the way. He would give the throng one chance—one opportunity to receive the mother’s mercy within him.

 

As his party approached, the rebel Septon quieted himself and another man motioned for the crowd to halt—which they did haphazardly at staggered intervals both afore and behind the two leaders of this throng. Nonetheless this gave Stafford just the opportunity to seize all eyes upon himself. He motioned for his guards to stay nearby but clearly back. Let none say the Fierce and Loyal Lion did not meet on the rebels hiding behind his guards.

 

He shouted, “My people, I am your liege. Hear me now as I proclaim this once and only once! For those who follow these man in blind ignorance, you have my full and free pardon. Return to your homes and fields and may you and yours continue to prosper—”

 

A woman interjected, “What home? My hut’s been gutted to pay your taxes, my liege!”

 

“The bread was stolen off me plate!” called out a man.

 

Others complained of not being able to hear him, while tradesmen yelled about

 

A rather bold man with sweaty black hair came forward, worrying Stafford’s mount with how close he came, and pronounced, “I was a smithy for me village—till the tax man come and take my anvil!”

 

On that measure “The tax is the King’s for defense against the Stepstones Pirates!”

 

“The King would take me livelihood away for a bunch of step stones?” called out the bold man.

 

“If the tax collector hadn’t taken me hammer and chisel, I’d have made his grace some stones for him to step on!” called out another.

 

“The Stepstones are islands, you fools!” snarled Stafford.

 

“Whoe’er heard of these step stones afore now?” called out the bold man once again to general laughter.

 

That was it. Stafford drew steel, much to the shock of the crowd. His guards approached closer, but the crowd tightened between him and them as they stepped back from Stafford, enclosing him in an oblong circle.

 

“You have been warned. If you proceed any farther you will meet a Lion’s wrath!”

 

“We’re a peaceful protest to the Rock! We do not steal—we work for what food we need on the march, and share amongst each other like kin!” proclaimed the bold one once again—while the two leaders—the Septon and the other man—looked on with smug smiles.

 

“I am head of the Rock, you fools!” proclaimed Stafford as he swiped at the bold man—who ducked at the last moment allowing a woman’s throat to be slit. She fell down as a ruby necklace of her blood dripped down her neck. There were screams from either side of her. But Stafford was not one to be put off by the sight of blood. The fools had been warned, and now they would pay the price of rebellion. The bold man looked wide eyed at the woman and then at him, just realizing how close to death he had been. Stafford swung his sword in another direction—this time catching a boy—almost a man by the looks of him—a rebel nonetheless.

 

“My lord!” called out his guards, pressing the crowd as he heard more steel drawn at a distance.

 

It was then the bold smithy screamed and recklessly charged towards his mount—spooking the horse and causing him to rear—sending Stafford flying from his saddle and into the dirt with a decided thump.

 

For a moment, Stafford panicked—especially as he saw the crowd press in on him, but the sound of swords swinging could be heard getting closer, and Stafford took comfort in knowing his guards would be at him any moment as his sword which had fallen from his grasp was drug away along with his helmet. He fought with the mob of people descending upon him—managing to throw a few off, but just as he had more pounced upon him to hold him down. But he saw the glimmer of steel not too far away and he knew he only had to hold out a little longer. Unfortunately he had forgotten about the rocks as the smithy took one in his hand and brought it down upon his head.

 

All was pain, dirt, blood, cold and darkness not too long thereafter.


	52. Lyanna IV

**LYANNA**  
  
When traveling to Winterfell as late in her pregnancy she had hoped to find excuse to give birth there rather than the Red Keep. Lyarra had been born in the finally repaired Maegor’s Holdfast and she had found the experience rather unsatisfying. Storm’s End had been further south but at least amongst sea spray created by the rough waves she felt some relief from the heat of the south with the wind and the rain which surged against that castle. In King’s Landing there’d been no relief, and instead she’d had to swelter in the oppressive heat. No, for this birth she would give birth in the cool Northern landscape—even if it was during the middle of winter. Her body had thanked her well enough for the return to a climate which she was far more accustomed to. No matter how long she lived in the south, she would always be a northerner at heart.  
  
At long last Eddrick had been born. She knew him upon the sight of him. The few wisps of black hair and his blue eyes were just of his father’s coloring, but his face held features which she recalled his cousin Jon had held as a babe. Eddrick was a happy babe, always smiling and laughing, when he wasn’t in search of her teat that was. Durran was fascinated by his little brother, stating rather obviously with amazement that he was “so small”. He was joined in his amazement with his cousin Rickon, who poked at Eddrick’s right foot then, curious as to what that might do. Not long thereafter both Durran and Rickon grew bored with her Eddrick and they rushed out of the confinement chamber that her goodsister had allowed her to use.  
  
During this time Elyssa had been of great help to Lyanna—acting as her mouthpiece to the world outside her confinement chamber. But it was now, so soon on the heels of Durran’s and Rickon’s departure that Elyssa came to her with a request. The first request she had ever asked of her since joining her service all those years ago.  
  
Elyssa began simply enough, “It concerns a new guest to arrive at Winterfell.”  
  
“Not another well-wishing lady or lordling, I hope,” grumbled Lyanna. Already Lady Jonelle Glover, Lady Tallhart, Ser Woolfield, and Lady Barbrey Dustin, had all come wishing her and the new prince joy, though the last amongst that list had seemed less than earnest in her wishes.  
  
Elyssa clarified, “No my lady, though Lord Manderly does wish to give you his best wishes later. The matter concerns a person Lord Manderly has brought to Winterfell for trial.”  
  
Lyanna rebounded, “For trial?! He should know his liege has marched for Moat Cailin with as many men as he could muster in such a short time."  
  
Elyssa continued, “The prisoner asked for her case to be tried by Winterfell directly.”  
  
“And what sort of relation do you have to this prisoner?” asked Lyanna, guessing where the request would soon arise from.  
  
Like always, Elyssa cut straight to the point, “She’s my sister, Anya.”  
  
Lyanna thought for a moment, recalling what Elyssa had said of her family, “Anya… didn’t you tell me that she was the one who became a Septa?”  
  
Elyssa confirmed, “Aye, and she was sent to the Snowy Sept after taking her vows.”  
  
 _To White Harbor then…_  
  
“What by the gods, has a Septa done to warrant arrest?” questioned Lyanna.  
  
“Mayhaps I should allow Anya to speak for herself.”  
  
Lyanna nodded and instructed, “Aye. Speak with Lord Manderly, he may escort her here to my confinement chambers—he may even have a guard present to keep an eye on her, but tell him in some way I will speak with your sister.”  
  
Elyssa seemed to be at ease upon hearing this but she did not immediately leave to find her sister.  
  
“Is there something else troubling you, Elyssa?” asked Lyanna.  
  
“Your brother has just arrived from the western coast, your grace,” answered Elyssa quite affectedly.  
  
“Benjen’s here?! Find him immediately and tell him to come directly to me, Elyssa—that is a command!” insisted Lyanna.  
  
“Aye, your grace,” answered Elyssa with a smile and she curtsied before departing the room.  
  
Lyanna returned to occupying her time entertaining the slightly fussy Eddrick. It was not long though until Elyssa returned with Benjen in tow. Lyanna could not help but notice how both Benjen and Elyssa’s eyes caught each other’s briefly before separating once again as Elyssa left Lyanna to speak with Benjen and introduce him to his newest nephew alone. There was no mistaking the Benjen who now stood before her for the boy she’d left behind at Winterfell before leaving for marriage. He was nearly nine and ten namedays, had grown taller, wore a short beard upon his chin, and finally had filled out from the thin gangly boy he’d been. He carried himself much more confidently as well—likely from being a lord in his own right. All in all the changes that had made her pup of a brother into a man suited him quite well. Lyanna approved of them overall, even if she did for an instant mistake him for looking like a younger version of father.  
  
“Do I look that awful, my sweet sister,” asked Benjen glibly, and her shock at his appearance was over.  
  
She answered contritely, “Nay, but I will ask why you haven’t come to see your Queen before now.”  
  
“Oh, forgive me, your grace, I had only just arrived not too long ago,” he said with exaggerated deference. Even though she was confined to bed and he were now a man grown, they still were children playing with sticks in the godswood.  
  
Lyanna scoffed and held Eddrick closer to herself as if to deny him the sight of his nephew, “You’re horrible. Now I do not know whether or not to introduce you to the newest pup to our pack or not.”  
  
“Shouldn’t he more appropriately be called a fawn who is new to his herd?” questioned Benjen as he sat upon the bed by her knees.  
  
“Is a stag named Eddrick?” asked Lyanna as she moved closer to Ben so he could see.  
  
"Let Durran be the Young Stag, this one is my little wolf pup," cooed Lyanna before handing her son to his uncle.  
  
Benjen was easily enraptured by his young nephew’s easy smiles, breaking into his own—and suddenly Lyanna remembered in a memory quite distant and hazy a woman’s smile just like Benjen’s. She was sweaty and exhausted, but still that same grin that she saw on Benjen’s face she saw in her mind’s eye on her and also her son.  
  
“’Tis a shame you named him for dour Uncle Ned,” said Benjen to Eddrick though speaking to her. As he spoke he moved his eyebrows and manipulated his face as such so that Eddrick could not help but burst into his small little laughter.  
  
“I named him for Ned and Father,” clarified Lyanna with some solemnity.  
  
Still making faces for Eddrick, Benjen asked, “And the King approves?”  
  
“We discussed names before I left. If it was to be a girl she would have been named for his mother.” She sighed—though thinking that would have been redundant given Stannis had named his eldest daughter that, with little Shireen being born a few moons ago. Lyanna then continued teasingly, “In truth though, I should have named him for you instead of Ned, he is as easy to smile as you are.”  
  
Benjen smiled again, “I think you overestimate how much I smile, Lya.”  
  
“When will you leave?” she asked.  
  
And Benjen’s smile became a little strained, but he kept on playing with his nephew.  
  
Benjen answered honestly, “I was speaking with Lord Manderly. According to the instructions Ned left, I’m to lead what ships he’s gathered together or built, sail south, and join the Royal Fleet, with your… friend Arthur and his squire accompanying me.” At mentioning Arthur’s name, Eddrick grabbed Benjen by the beard and pulled—refusing to let go, and causing Lyanna to laugh along with her son.  
  
“Arthur is still here?!” asked Lyanna with some surprise. She had thought he’d have left with Ned. She had gone into confinement the day the news of Plankytown had arrived and Ned had spoken like he was taking them, even when Lyanna had asked him to find some other way. He had had such a short time to come to know Jon—and gods help him if he were to die in this war, then he would never have the chance.  
  
Benjen clarified, as he tried and failed to delicately break his nephew’s grip, “Ned thought it might give Arthur some more time with Jon. He’ll rejoin them when we reach King’s Landing.”  
  
Lyanna smiled to herself, feeling a little pride at having convinced Ned to do Arthur that favor at least.  
  
“And who is overseeing your keep?” asked Lyanna.  
  
He told her quite simply as he managed to free his beard from Eddrick’s strong grasp, “Ser Wyllis, while Ser Davos leads what few ships the western coast could scrounge up from possible Ironborn attack.”  
  
She replied in an almost melancholic tone as Benjen returned a suddenly sleepy Eddrick to her, “It seems only like yesterday Ned was coming home from the last war… now you’re both going off into it,”  
  
Looking at her almost with a kind of pain in his eyes, he replied, “If the realm needs us, we must do what we must.”  
  
It was then that Elyssa—the bastion of good timing that she was—entered the chamber. Once again Lyanna could not help but notice her brother and her lady-in-waiting’s shared gaze.  
  
“Excuse me your grace, but you asked to speak with the Septa,” interjected Elyssa after lowering her eyes from Benjen’s gaze.  
  
“I did. Thank you Elyssa, we can speak in private,” said Lyanna as she smiled to herself, though appearing to do so to Eddrick as she gently bounced him in her arms as he drifted off to sleep.  
  
 _It is my role to see my ladies-in-waiting receive proper offers of marriage, if they so desire it…_  
  
“Your grace?” asked Elyssa, clearly taken aback at the dismissal.  
  
“Since when do you speak with Septas?” asked Benjen with some disgruntled confusion.  
  
She started, “As Queen, dear brother, I must…”  
  
 _Oh how did Robert put it at our wedding?_  
  
And then it came to her and Lyanna finished, “I must honor all the faiths of my subjects. And I would like to speak with the Septa alone, Elyssa.”  
  
 _There, I’ve introduced them without their knowing!_  
  
Benjen looked discontented—but he was smart enough to hold his tongue at this point, while Elyssa, Lyanna suspected, was beginning to catch on to her true motives.  
  
Luckily before Elyssa could voice these motivations aloud, Benjen did his part, “Lady Elyssa, I believe we are commanded to leave.”  
  
Elyssa looked at once between Benjen and Lyanna before seeming to give up, curtsy and allow Benjen to offer his arm as escort.  
  
“Have you had much opportunity to explore the castle, my lady?” asked Benjen as the door closed behind them, leaving the quiet Septa, who through all of this had stood as still as a statue just inside the entrance to the chamber.  
  
In the flickering light of the fire, which gave the largest amount of light to the room on this dark late afternoon, Septa Anya looked almost like a white marble statue of the mother that adorned the Great Sept of Baelor that she recalled from her coronation. Her robes were white and covered every part of her body but her face and her hands. From her face, Lyanna could see a passing resemblance to Elyssa that could easily mark them as near relatives. Septa Anya looked only a few years her elder, if Lyanna could judge right, and as such she almost felt a kinship to her.  
  
“Septa Anya, your sister says you have come to plead your case before Winterfell?” asked Lyanna.  
  
She spoke with a certain confidence of spirit that did not match the demure outer look she held, “Aye, your grace. I had heard word that Lord Stark was a fair and just man. I am sorry to have missed him.”  
  
“For what crime have you been arrested?” queried Lyanna.  
  
“For supposed heresy, your grace,” answered Septa Anya, taking one step closer.  
  
“Supposed heresy?” questioned Lyanna.  
  
Curtsying, Anya replied, "If you please to give me leave, I shall give you the ground of what I know to be true.”  
  
Lyanna indicated for her to speak on, cradling Eddrick to her as she did.  
  
Anya spoke honestly now, saying, “I have been blessed by the Creator. She hath spoken to me and let me see which was the clear ministry and which was the wrong. Since that time, she hath let me distinguish between the voice of divine authority and worldly ambitions in the speech of men.”  
  
“You claim that your god has spoken to you?” asked Lyanna warily. She was beginning to grow uncomfortable with how Septa Anya was looking at her and Eddrick.  
  
Septa Anya seemed almost resplendent as she spoke, “Aye, by an immediate voice of revelation! Our creator is much like yourself, a great Mother to us, who cares and nurtures us—her babes in her arms, and wishes only the best for us—to see us overcome our internal struggles and reach out for her loving and waiting hand in her garden she has given us to live in."  
  
“And you’ve been arrested for believing this?” Lyanna asked for clarification's sake.  
  
Anya nodded and said, “I have done my best to spread her message to others, but the First Septon of the Snowy Sept has condemned me for speaking what I know to be truth. He said he would see me sent to the Great Sept of Baelor before the moon was out… is it just that a man should threaten my life for speaking the truth? That is why I went to Lord Manderly and begged to be brought here to plead my case before Lord Stark. But I… am too late.”  
  
Lyanna could sense Septa Anya’s feeling of failure, and knew that it was time for her to promise her what she could for Elyssa’s sake.  
  
“I shall speak with Lady Stark, who rules in my brother’s stead—needless to say that I have taken an interest in your case. You need not fear being sent to the fires of Baelor while I am here,” answered Lyanna.  
  
Almost immediately Septa Anya dropped to her knees in an almost worshipful position, “Bless you, your grace, you do the work of the creator proud.”  
  
Lyanna felt completely uncomfortable by the position and gave the excuse that she was tired so that the Septa might return to the guards who were waiting outside for her.  
  
She did indeed speak with Catelyn about Septa Anya, and for Elyssa’s sake they arrived at a compromise what would hopefully appeal the First Septon of the Snowy Sept by banishing her from White Harbor. She was permitted by Catelyn in Ned’s stead, and with Benjen’s approval, to move to lands yet to be settled near Benjen’s keep, with the understanding that if she ever returned to a Sept that she would be dragged before the High Septon and be tried like any other person convicted of heresy. Lyanna wondered how much of Benjen’s approval came from Elyssa pleading her own case to him, but wisely kept her mouth closed on the subject—for the moment of course.


	53. Asha II

**ASHA**

 

When word had arrived from Lord Tully of the Sack of Plankytown, Ser Brynden had told all his squires and Ser Perwyn—who he’d knighted, though had stayed on to help with the younger squires—that they would soon be departing for the capital to join a gathering army the King was calling for. At first Asha had thought herself included amongst Ser Brynden’s planned company, after all she had been there with the rest of the squires when he’d made the announcement, and she had as good an aim with her axes, arrows, and knives as Tristan Ryger did with bow and arrow alone. If it came down to it she could gut someone like a fish with a dagger like her nuncles had taught her before the rebellion.

 

But when Ser Brynden had come to speak with her and discovered her in the midst of packing a trunk with clothes, she learned otherwise.

 

“And just where do you think you’re going?” he asked almost nonchalantly.

 

She replied with only a tiny bit of cheek with her own question, “Where do you think?”

 

He scowled and said, “It better not be to King’s Landing.”

 

“I did not know you were going someplace else.” she replied.

 

He said briskly, “You cannot come.”

 

“If its war these pirates bring, who better to fight them than an Ironborn?” she challenged. She may have only been three and ten—soon to be four and ten in the new year. She had bled already, she was practically a woman grown. And at any rate she was just as capable of coming to as Patrek was—and he was going.

 

“Because it is an Ironborn who leads them,” replied Ser Brynden quite gravely. His mostly grey hair framing his face contorted with the Tully frown.

 

“Who?” she demanded.

 

His answer was immediate, “Your uncle Euron.”

 

She was silent at that. She had little love for her uncle Euron. He’d scared her mother—for mother refused to speak of him when Asha had asked after him. And nuncle Rodrik had always spoke of him in hushed tones about red painted decks, mute thralls, magic, and blue stained lips. There was a kind of mystical quality to her quicksilver uncle Euron—one which made him fearsome and dangerous. A slight shudder traveled down her spine at the mere thought of seeing him.

 

Ser Brynden then compelled her to answer with, “Now do you see why you cannot go to war with the rest of my squires?”

 

_Is he implying…_

 

“Would I come if it wasn’t against him?” she asked, feeling she needed to know the answer.

 

He took her left shoulder and reassured her, “Gods help me, I would not have heard the end of it from Hoster, but yes, I would’ve taken you. The Seven know how good an aim you have.”

 

She wasn’t sure that he wasn’t just saying this to quiet the subject, but in any case she found the thought slightly more soothing as Riverrun witnessed the departure of Ser Brynden and the rest of his squires, leaving Lady Jeyne in charge of the castle and her two children. Lady Jeyne, with the added responsibilities of her station now depended upon Asha for more assistance in looking after little Tristifer and Vylott than before. Asha had always been called to be of help with Ser Brynden’s babes, the four nameday old Vylott and two nameday Tristifer were constantly making a mess of their shared nursery or escaping it, but now she could hardly pass a day without doing so at least once. Lady Jeyne, though she managed the papers and visitations well enough with the assistance of Utherydes Wayn, seemed to be oddly sick more often in the months since the departure of Ser Brynden, or at least that was what she claimed when she asked for her to check in on her two children for her.

 

Asha entertained them as well she could. To be truthful, she felt somewhat awkward around Vylott and Tristifer. It wasn’t that she disliked young children—no, that was not it at all. It was the fact that, well, she knew how to be a playmate to them—as she often had to Theon before leaving Pyke—but to care for them like Lady Jeyne did… that was where she felt not at all able. In a lot of ways Asha felt inadequate to the idea of looking after such young children. When Tristifer had managed to soil his small clothes it had taken a maid to solve the situation. Tristifer was quite clingy as well, but not like Patrek who simply hovered like her shadow. No, if anything Tristifer was like Theon had been with her mother. If Tristifer wasn’t clasped to his mother’s skirts, he was laying claim to Asha’s leg, arm, or hand—often at the most inconvenient of times. One time in particular she had to scold him for surprising her in the practice yard just when she was about to throw an ax. She had yelled at Tristifer, scolding him roughly as though he were like one of the other boys like Patrek, Ronald, or Hugo. The boys would have brushed it off easily enough with a jape of their own, but Tristifer had begun to cry at that and avoided looking at her for over a week after that, making her feel quite ashamed of herself for scolding him so roughly.

 

She was better with Vylott who asked her to teach her how to throw things well, and Asha obliged. She of course did not give the girl a knife, but instead taught her to throw sticks at a stone circle in such a way that would later help her learn how to throw knives. As Vylott was learning from the Septa how to sew two pieces of cloth together, Asha even taught her how to thread the needle using an old trick she’d learned from Lady Jeyne. Overall Vylott was much easier to manage, but even there Asha made more than her fair share of mistakes. Vylott was quite used to getting her own way, and this was quite easy for Asha to oblige when what Vylott wanted aligned with Asha’s own wants. But sometimes Vylott would want things like demanding to hold her ax or wanting to climb up a particular wall which lacked the proper holds to make it climbable. Always Vylott would throw a tantrum and Asha was at a loss with what to do to amend it and a maid once again collecting the wailing child.

 

With Ser Brynden gone, Asha simply felt useless and at a loss. She wasn’t a very good minder of children, and she felt without the daily regimen set by Ser Brynden, that she was beginning to grow a bit lazy—and she hated that most of all.

 

It wasn’t until Tristifer had scraped his knee after taking a tumble during running that she discovered something that would present her with the opportunity to change things. After delivering the clingy and squalling toddler to the maester, she was sent to tell Lady Jeyne of the incident, as the Tully haired boy refused to calm down enough for the maester to do his work without his mother present. She was about to enter the solar—the door to which wasn’t completely shut, as though a person had been in too much of a hurry to see that it had closed behind them completely.

 

A man’s voice that she had never heard before was clearly audible, “The reports from over the Western mountains grow increasingly worse. Last I heard the smallfolk had killed Lord Stafford and begun breaking the King’s peace on their march to the Rock. Good Lady, I know you are not my liege, but I beg of you as a good neighbor, if you have any men you might be able to send to join myself and Lords Lydden and Brax in putting down these rebels—”

 

Lady Jeyne interjected, “I will see what I can do, Lord Lefford. You are welcome to stay to sup with us this evening while I consider the matter.”

 

It was not too long after this that a sour-looking man with honey brown hair and pursed lips stormed out of the solar. He passed by Asha as though she were not there, and she stared after him for a moment before recalling her original purpose for coming to find Lady Jeyne. Lady Jeyne looked exhausted sitting in the chair that Asha had seen both Ser Brynden and his brother occupy, as though sitting in it were draining the very life from her. She was pale and hollow eyed in her face, and a little bloated around her middle—looking far worse than she had earlier that morning. Upon hearing of her son’s need of her Lady Jeyne rose and had to grab the desk in front of her to steady herself to keep from falling back into the chair. Asha was obliged to assist Lady Jeyne to the maester’s tower.

 

“Lord Lefford wants men?” asked Asha.

 

“Aye… to put down a smallfolk rebellion in the Westerlands,” answered Lady Jeyne.

 

“How big is this rebellion?” inquired Asha as they came to the stairs nearest the solar.

 

Lady Jeyne sighed as they descended the steps, “There’s several thousand who are armed and proven killers, or so Lord Lefford hears, and the number grows each day. They follow a leader—some man named Farran that they misguidedly follow. And during winter of all seasons—how do they expect to feed themselves on this march? It’s nothing but a dangerous folly on the smallfolk’s part.”

 

“But if you chop a snake’s head off, the body dies,” said Asha poignantly as they reached the bottom and exited the keep to cross the chilly courtyard to the maester’s tower.

 

Lady Jeyne smiled as she took her meaning, “Aye—there used to be two leaders—some Septon named Callen or so—but he died during the attack on Lord Stafford.”

 

“Will you send him some men?” questioned Asha as they entered the Maester’s winding tower.

 

“A few, to show that Riverrun does not fail to assist those who call upon it in a time of need, but I do not have many to spare—not with the number Brynden took with him to King’s Landing,” tutted Jeyne as they ascended the stairs and Tristifer’s wails became ever louder. Somehow little Tristifer had managed to keep up his screaming until his mother’s arrival. All conversation about the Westerlands rebellion ceased upon entering the maester’s sickroom.

 

_If someone could just kill Farran, the rest of the smallfolk would likely disperse and return to their homes in fear and hunger… better that then dead…_

 

_I could kill Farran… I needn’t get too close… a simple knife to his heart, throat or groin would do it…_

 

When Tristifer had been soothed into a sleep and Maester Afon was allowed to clean the wound with wine and wrap it with clean cloths, Lady Jeyne seemed to allow herself to fall back into her chair by Tristifer’s bedside.

 

“The strain of running Riverrun by yourself is not good for the babe,” tutted Maester Afon, and Asha looked up at Lady Jeyne with surprise. She had been there to witness both of Lady Jeyne’s births, and never had she reacted like this to being with child.

 

“It is what is required of me, and thus I must do it, even with this unexpected gift of the Seven,” answered Lady Jeyne rather tiredly. And apparently it was true.

 

“My lady, your first duty is to—” began Maester Afon as he approached her.

 

“Is to my husband, who has left for a war the Seven only knows will end. In his place I am lord and master—do not forget that,” hissed Lady Jeyne in a manner that Asha had never seen her before. Always before an air of honey had surrounded Lady Jeyne, but now that was gone.

 

Maester Afon seemed to collect himself for his answer“Of course, but you needn’t take on so much responsibility yourself alone.”

 

“Do I not take your counsel on matters?” challenged Lady Jeyne fiercely.

 

“Aye, but in your condition—” started the well-intentioned maester.

 

“I am nowhere near ready for confinement just yet, Afon! When I am, I assure you Ser Wayn and yourself shall be the first ones to know. I trust my son will be well enough to take his meal in the Great Hall this evening. If there is nothing more I will take my leave. Come Asha,” snapped Lady Jeyne decidedly as she stood and crossed to leave the room. Asha, slightly stunned followed not long thereafter. After the door to the sickroom had been closed and they descended the steps, Lady Jeyne let go of a breath Asha had been unaware she’d been holding on to, and Lady Jeyne deflated from the pose she had maintained since the maester’s challenge. She took hold of Asha’s arm—not unlike Tristifer might, but Asha did not find the clutch at all distasteful in this instant, as Lady Jeyne leaned her head onto Asha’s shoulder.

 

Lady Jeyne admitted quietly, “I envy you, Asha.”

 

Asha was at a loss for words.

 

Lady Jeyne continued on, lifting her head from Asha’s shoulder and loosening her grip—but not completely letting go of her arm as they exited the Maester’s tower for the courtyard, “Whenever you step into the role of a man, it comes naturally to you. You’re treated almost as any boy would, and given almost equal consideration. But if I do the same, even when it’s my duty to do so, I am greeted only with questions of whether or not I am fit… that’s why I never pushed too far with your lessons, you know. I taught you enough to be passable when for you need be a lady… and not much further.” Lady Jeyne then sighed and asked, “Tell me, truthfully, Asha, do I seem in over my head.”

 

“You do look tired, but that is nothing a good night’s sleep would not cure, after which you ought to be fine,” answered Asha bluntly.

 

Lady Jeyne smiled at the honesty and replied, “Aye… or a nap. I think I’ll take one before the evening meal—mayhaps that will help me to decide on what to say to Lord Lefford when he hears I am not giving him as many men as he had hope of.”

 

Asha took the afternoon free of all Tullys to think of what she might do considering her plans. She could easily disguise herself as a boy by dressing in some of Edmure’s old clothes once again and sneaking away. Often the guards in Edmure’s old clothes had been apt to disregard her as some kitchen scallion. But depending upon which men were sent, it was likely that they might possibly recognize her. There was of course the option to sneak out on her own and make her own way across the Riverlands and into the Westerlands—but that seemed more like folly the longer she thought on it. How would she find food? How would she find her way over the western mountains into the Westerlands? No the only way to go would be with Lord Lefford or not at all. And if she did not go at all, she would simply remain here at Riverrun doing nothing—which she did not like the idea of at all. With all the other squires out there she had to do something. Simply sitting here in Riverrun twiddling her thumbs was something she could not do. After asking Lady Jeyne about the matter, she would have to go to Lord Lefford himself and convince her to accept her as part of Lady Jeyne’s envoy.

 

“No, Asha, I cannot send you,” was Lady Jeyne’s immediate response while Asha walked with her from her chambers to dinner. Already Lady Jeyne looked much refreshed than she had earlier in the afternoon.

 

“Why not?!” exclaimed Asha.

 

“Have you truly forgotten the reason you are here?” rounded Lady Jeyne.

 

And Asha was suddenly broken from her imagination filled with her fighting for the safety of Riverrun.

 

Lady Jeyne sighed, “Asha, I care for you and trust you as much as I do my own children. I could not do otherwise given the circumstances. But my goodbrother would have my head and leave my children motherless if I ever forgot the original purpose of your being here. Brynden and I have tried to make it as best a situation as we could, but that does not change the circumstances any.”

 

“I am your hostage,” spat Asha.

 

Lady Jeyne flinched at the term, but she continued on keeping her gaze locked on Asha’s, “In truth, yes. To say otherwise would be a lie—and that I will not do to you. As such, I cannot in good faith to my goodbrother knowingly permit you to go, even if I would otherwise agree to it. Do you understand Asha? I cannot _knowingly_ permit you to go, even if I would otherwise agree to it.”

 

Asha was at first confused why she repeated herself for the extra emphasis, until her mind caught up with her meaning.

 

“Would you really take such a chance?” challenged Asha, half in disbelief.

 

In a hushed whisper Lady Jeyne added, “That is only your situation, not who you are—what you choose to make of it is between you and the gods. But I do know, if the rebels decide to turn their eyes east after the Rock, where do you think they’ll turn? The pass near the Golden Tooth is far easier to cross in winter than the one by Deep Den. And besides Pinkmaiden, Riverrun’s the closest castle to the Westerlands. I have not the men to face several thousand starving desperate and armed smallfolk alone. We might wait them out, but then our own smallfolk would likely turn against us if we did such a thing. Better to chop off the head of the vile snake than let it linger in the garden any longer. Prepare yourself and take your meal in the kitchens... boy.”

 

And with that Lady Jeyne gave a slightly stunned Asha a meaningful look and then departed without her for the Great Hall.   
  
The next morning, Asha having bound her chest to squeeze into the doublet of Edmure's old clothes, had disguised herself well enough to be passed off as a squire named Willem to Ser Halmon Paege at his insistence and a knowing wink to her when Lord Lefford asked who the green boy belonged to. No further challenge was issued by any man of the small party sent by Riverrun with Lord Lefford as they then marched westward.  
  
Lady Jeyne depended upon her to do this deed--and Asha was determined to prove her faith in her was not misguided, if only for the reason that beyond Ser Brynden, Lady Jeyne was one of the few elders to take her seriously. The kraken would kill the snake and then feast on its head.


	54. Edmure II

**EDMURE**

 

Life in King’s Landing—despite his father’s warning of having a lack of freedoms, turned out instead to be quite the reverse. For the first moon or so, of course his father and household guards did in fact keep him under close scrutiny, but as he was introduced to various members of the court he was given a longer and longer leash to pull—especially if said noblemen had a son or daughter close to his age.

 

Lady Bywater’s daughter, Dorynda, was especially interested him and teased him until he grew as red in the face as his hair—calling him a “freshly caught trout, still floundering around and gasping his gills in the unfamiliar waters. He of course pointed out to the golden-haired lady that he was quite capable—but never could think of the words to retort her word play beyond that.

 

“Oh tut, I assume you’re quite capable… of a lot of things,” she giggled while poking his chest.

 

Edmure was at a loss of what to say to a woman like that. He couldn’t speak to her like he could Asha, nor could he as Aunt Jeyne had said he should to such ladies. There was yet some way of speaking to a woman that he had yet to master, and as such he felt lost and highly embarrassed whenever paraded this or that noble house’s daughter. As soon as his father saw his discomfort, Edmure swore he eased up on his social restrictions simply because he felt that that might be a more worthy punishment. Being the son of the Hand of the King, the only son, Edmure found to be a curse which only frustrated him further. He had to meet every single person, remember facts about them that he couldn’t possibly do so, and worst of all, Edmure was in this all by himself. To be sure, there were a few guards that he had known since childhood, but they were guards, not his lordly friends like Marq, Ronald, Hugo, Patrek, or Asha. Edmure had never felt more out of place in his life, and his father seemed to think it fitting enough for having done what he had claimed he’d done to Liam and Lymond. It was enough to drive Edmure to the practice yards more often, where he felt he could let out all of his frustration against a practice yard dummy.

 

It wasn’t until he had been cornered by Lady Stokeworth, the wife of Lord Manly of the Goldcloaks that he found himself the first person in the court who he might take a liking to. Lycus Langward was the son of Lord Lesly, the Chief Officer of the King’s Mint, for Lord Treasurer, Lord Qarlton Chelsted. He was tall with boyish good looks and charm that had many a young lady in the court swooning over him. While Edmure felt he was gangly to some degree, with hands and feet to trip or fumble with, Lycus was agile and well poised, even at the age of seven and ten. He had short tawny brown hair which he kept neatly arranged, with a wispy mustache and goatee that he was obviously trying and had yet to completely grow out. He wore a burgundy doublet stitched with stars shaped like a crown, with black breeches. His cloak—also in his house colors were shorter than Edmure was used to seeing, only coming down to just beyond his waist, and he wore a black flat hat with a burgundy colored feather stuck in it. In truth Lycus was dressed in a manner unlike anything Edmure had seen before. The latest in Lorathi fashion, he later explained to Edmure.

 

Lady Tanda Stokeworth had been trying to convince him into having dinner with herself and Lord Manly, where he could properly meet her two daughters and her young son.

 

“Lolys especially has expressed quite the interest in meeting you, Lord Edmure,” said Lady Stokeworth quite prevailingly.

 

It was then that Lycus made his move, interrupting the conversation by saying, “There you are! Forgive me, Lady Stokeworth, but I’ve been looking for Tully here all morning. Do beg our pardon!” And without a further word, Lycus had grabbed him by the elbow and drug him from Lady Stokeworth to nearly halfway across the room. When they were at some distance, Lycus let go of his elbow.

 

“What was that all about?!” demanded Edmure followed quickly by a “Who are you?”

 

Lycus had then leaned in quite close and said in a rather hushed voice:

 

“You do not want to be invited to a dinner with Lady Stokeworth.”

 

“And why ever not?” asked Edmure rather testily—still upset with how he had been drug by the elder youth.

 

“For one thing, she’s eager to try and lure you, the Heir of the Riverlands for her daughter, secondly, her daughter Lolys is a half-wit, and thirdly, her cook doesn’t know how to make a proper stew—let alone all the courses of venison roasted in apricot marmalade sauce that she was baiting you with. You strike me as a man who prefers better conversation and companionship—not to mention a better meal. Unless of course I’m wrong—in which case I would be most glad to return you to Lady Stokeworth and—”

 

“No, you—you’re quite right!” insisted Edmure.

 

“Don’t speak so loud, unless you want the entire court to hear you,” admonished Lycus with an air of shared conspiracy between them. It reminded him of how Marq, Patrek, and Asha would plot things back at Riverrun.

 

“You did not answer my second question,” reminded Edmure, who at that point was unaware of his rescuer’s identity.

 

“Lycus Langward, son and heir to Lord Lesly, but I am afraid we must put off any further inquiries for another place—lest our story be found out by Lady Tanda herself. Come, we can speak there more freely elsewhere.” Once again Lycus had grabbed Edmure’s arm and nearly drug him along as they left the outer chambers leading to the throne room and made their way through the winding passageways of the Red Keep. As he did Edmure noticed Duglys, the grey-bearded guard his father had sent to look after him take notice of his sudden departure and managed to intercept Lycus and Edmure just before they left the chamber.

 

“I didn’t realize you had a Septa to keep look after you,” japed Lycus after Edmure had managed to convince Duglys that everything was fine, and they had walked for a bit and managed to put some distance between the aging knight and themselves—or rather Lycus had done so.

 

“Ser Duglys is only doing his duty,” remarked Edmure, feeling the need to defend his father’s man as they continued to walk the passages of the Red Keep.

 

“Of course, of course. Duty is an honorable trait… when it’s not taken to such extremes that is,” dismissed Lycus rather cooly. Edmure felt rather uneasy about how Lycus spoke of duty, but before he could dwell on this much further they had arrived at a door near what Edmure thought of as the servants section of the keep. Lycus knocked on the door and soon it opened to reveal a man dressed rather finely for a servant—in similarly flamboyant clothes to Lycus complete with feathers and tears in his velvet vest to reveal richer cloth of his shirt underneath that came puffing out in all directions. His hair was dark and quite short, and his beard kept quite close to his skin looking little more than a bit of scruff. He had lines though around his eyes which Edmure took note of—as though he had stared for too long at something in a poorly lit room. He was thin and short man, just a hair taller than Edmure himself, and Edmure expected to grow at least half a head more before he was finished—at least he hoped he would.

 

“You’re late!” scolded the man to Lycus with a distinct accent.

 

Lycus introduced the man to Edmure as though the man’s name were Aegon the Conqueror, saying, “You’ll get your gold either way if I’m on time or late. Lord Edmure, this is Master Haenys Hollbyn of Norvos.”

 

“He want one?” asked Master Haenys after taking Edmure roughly by the hand and shaking it before turning back to Lycus. The one thing that Edmure took the most notice of with Master Haenys was his hands—they appeared to be as stained with ink as a Maester’s or a scribe’s were. There were also no calluses from sword work that Edmure to could tell—or at least none of the usual kind that were noticeable to him.

 

“I’m sure that after he sees your work, he’ll be begging for one of your fine portraits,” assured Lycus smoothly.

 

“Portraits?” asked Edmure, quite unfamiliar with the word as they entered the room, with Ser Duglys closing the door behind them and then looking about the room immediately before Edmure settled in.

 

“Why a portrait is a painting of a drawing of oneself,” explained Lycus easily, as he was directed by Master Haenys to sit down upon a stool. Master Haenys then handed Edmure a piece of parchment with a sketch of a man upon it. The sight of it took Edmure’s breath away, for he could hardly believe his eyes. Not that people were not drawn before—Lysa had been fond to draw a landscape with Petyr Baelish in it somewhere—it’s just he had never seen one where the man looked so… well, life-like. Lysa’s people had always seemed flat and as thin as the parchment they had been drawn upon, but the man on this parchment seemed as though he were staring straight out at him and truly there on it. Ser Duglys himself made a remark, while trying to hide his own interest, but even he seemed quite impressed with the skills of such a work. Suddenly the ink stained fingers made sense.

 

“You approve, boy?” questioned Master Haenys as he took the parchment from Edmure’s grasp.

 

“Indeed…” was all a stunned Edmure could say in response.

 

“This boy is Lord Tully’s son and heir, Master,” interjected Ser Duglys roughly.

 

“A boy is a boy, and Tully means nothing to me,” countered Master Haenys before turning and smiling rather cockily. He then pronounced to Edmure, “Charcoal costs two gold dragons, and ink and paint eight dragons.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” replied Edmure, to which the Master nodded his head and he finished preparing for Lycus’ sketch, pulling out ink parchment, and laying it out upon his raised desk to which he sat at upon a stool. Light streamed in from the large open windows, lighting up half of Lycus’ face so it seemed almost as white as porcelain. Edmure was then invited to find a chair and to take a seat, and Edmure watched half in fascination at the technique Master Haenys used as much as he focused on the conversation. By the door, Ser Duglys stood guard and tried to feign not being interested, or be caught giving more attention to Master Haenys than was probably appropriate in his mind.

 

“Why would you want a sketch of yourself?” asked Edmure to his newly minted acquaintance.

 

Lycus seemed to beam as he spoke, “To preserve how I look for all eternity. Long after I am gone, people will be able to look upon my portrait and say, and this is Lord Lycus Langward—he was one of our finest lords our house has e’er seen!”

 

Edmure had never considered that, before. But thinking on it, that would seem a reasonable thing. After all, how would he be remembered… how did he want to be remembered to future Tullys? The only Tully of note was his house’s founder, Lord Edwyn—who had risen from a steward to become a Lord by leading a rebellion against Harren the Black and the Ironborn with the support of Aegon the Conqueror. He had done so to keep his family and their small keep where the Tumblestone met the Red Fork from burning.

 

“And I thought you wanted to woo some love of yours,” said Master Haenys with a smirk as he continued to sketch quite fluidly at his raised work desk.

 

“That as well, but that’s what the miniature copies are for,” replied Lycus.

 

“You’re having more than one made?!” exclaimed Edmure.

 

“Of course, to give to all my friends and lovers, so they can remember me by,” proclaimed Lycus easily.

 

Edmure felt a foul aftertaste overtake his mouth upon hearing that.

 

What astonished Edmure though, was that within an hour or so Haenys had finished his sketch—or at least he said that he had worked on it enough for the moment that he could work on it later well enough, and it was now Edmure’s turn to sit and be drawn if he so desired. Deciding to go for it he pulled out eight dragons to which the Norvosi smiled and pocketed the money before quite genteelly indicating for Edmure to take Lycus’ spot. Master Haenys then took several moments adjusting Edmure’s pose

 

“You did not do that with me!” protested Lycus.

 

“You paid for charcoal,” tutted Master Haenys before finally settling on having Edmure hold his head in a position which emphasized what Haenys said was his “best side”. It was an odd and quite stiff position to hold, with him essentially facing one direction while his head was turned ever so slightly another—quite unlike the unified manner in which body and head had always been depicted in in Lysa’s sketches.

 

“No miniatures?” asked Lycus as he took his position sitting upon the chair that Edmure had been in.

 

“I have no need of them,” answered Edmure.

 

“So you are as pure and chaste as the Maiden then?” asked Lycus with a smirk.

 

“I have known a few women in my time,” snapped Edmure, feeling himself grow warm.

 

“Such color to your cheeks! No… please keep the color, you need something to shape to your flat pale cheeks!” scolded Haenys

 

“Excuse me!” exclaimed Edmure as he turned his head to face Haenys squarely.

 

Haenys replied, “Yes, that’s it, keep the red in them! But hold your pose!”

 

“I think he likes that you blush like a maid when you’re angry,” japed Lycus.

 

“I am no maid!” protested Edmure.

 

“Of course not, but you must admit, you certainly blush like one,” retorted Lycus.

 

At this Ser Duglys nearly broke out into a snort, but regained his composure almost immediately as Edmure narrowed towards his father’s man.

 

Edmure felt the need to elaborate, “I’ve been to bed with a few women.”

 

“With women, then?” asked Lycus with an odd look in his eye and tone to his voice, which Edmure took to mean he doubted him.

 

“Aye, several,” assured Edmure firmly. Two to be precise, the first one Marq had had to practically lock him in a room with, and the second… well the second had had nice black hair and dark eyes that had been quite enchanting to him.

 

“Well… good for you,” congratulated Lycus with an odd distant look to him, before he recovered and continued with more ease, “I have had several lovers myself, and I never find myself in shortage of any partners.”

 

“If that be so, why fear that they will forget you?” teased Edmure.

 

“It is difficult to forget a man who dresses in the Lorathi fashion here amongst your leathers and silks,” quipped Master Haenys.

 

“Is that what you call putting a feather in your cap and strutting around like a peacock, then?” cracked Ser Duglys.

 

“Tis all the fashion, north of Pentos,” justified Lycus with a smile.

 

“Have you been to Lorath?” asked Edmure.

 

“Aye, I jumped aboard a vessel bound for it when I was but a day shy of five and ten and lived there for a year.”

 

“You just jumped aboard a ship?” questioned Edmure.

 

“Aye,” answered Lycus as though it were the simplest of things to accept.

 

“What of your lord father?”

 

Lycus scoffed, “He cares not what I do… just so long as I eventually marry when the time comes, and provide him an heir, he lets me do as I like.”

 

Edmure had to admit that sounded quite enviable to him.

 

Master Haenys finished after two hours and Edmure was told to return in a few days for the finished portrait.

 

Lycus, Edmure found was quite the man. The more he discovered about him, the more Edmure both liked and was put off by him. He reveled in the tales of wanderlust he’d shared, Upon docking in Lorath he’d wandered about the city and taken up a position displaying fine clothes for a cloth merchant.

 

Lycus boasted at a later date when Edmure, “I brought a lot of business in for him and got to keep a few of the clothes since he came to take a liking for me—as he put it.”

 

“But you’re a lord’s son!” protested Edmure.

 

“And what is that to an Essosi? Besides, I needed something to do while wandering about Lorath, and the coin was useful of course,” dismissed Lycus.

 

His father did not react well to Ser Duglys’ report of Lord Lycus, and told him that he would be wise to choose his friends better.

 

“What is wrong with Lycus Langward? Is he not a lord’s son?”

 

“That is not the issue, Edmure.”

 

“Then what is?!”

 

“He has a reputation that I would think you’d prefer to avoid.”

 

Edmure hated it when his father danced around what he meant instead of spoke directly to the point. It was his most aggravating tendency.

 

“Are you forbidding me to meet with him then?”

 

His father seemed troubled as he spoke, as though recalling a particularly harmful memory. “No, I am simply advising you, that as the future heir to the Riverlands you have to consider with whom you take as friends and companions. For such relationships as a lord paramount bring with them political consequences you’ll never foresee. It is… it is a lesson that I learned far too late in life, and I’d not have you make my own mistake.”

 

His father’s words of course only made Edmure only wish to do the opposite, even if he did find Lycus’ actions sometimes rather odd. One morning he’d been in the practice yard—it had been an usually hot day and he had built up such a sweat he’d felt the need to strip off his practice leathers to his shirt. Lycus came and instead of joining him, simply watched him. It made Edmure feel rather uncomfortable.

 

Not long after the restriction on staying in the Red Keep had dissipated, Edmure found himself being drug about the city to wander its many streets—Ser Duglys never too far behind, but Edmure not caring what either he nor his father said. Occasionally they would stop in at a brothel—or at least Edmure would go inside and take a dark-haired whore so that there would be no doubt as to his having had enough women or not. Sometimes Edmure lost Lycus on these particular outings. He would disappear into the dark shadows of a brothel on some occasions, leaving Edmure to return to the Red Keep by himself, while other times Edmure and Lycus came out again after having their fill of women and drink to find misadventure somewhere else upon the city’s winding streets. He heard tails from Lycus of his year spent abroad in Essos, of the strange new form of poetry which took up Lycus’ time outside of their escapades, and Edmure figured if he could not have such adventures of his own, that he could instead enjoy hearing some of Lycus’ tales. The one where he had been captured by a couple of rogue sellswords for a Pentoshi crime lord and had had to rely on his wits and a myriad of disguises to escape the dungeon he’d been tossed into was one of Edmure’s favorites. Slowly Lycus became more interesting than the stories of practice yard pranks and his growing cousins that he received from Asha’s hand. Lycus was only three namedays his elder, and yet to Edmure it felt he’d had adventure and lived his life, and that more than anything was what Edmure longed. And then Plankytown had been sacked, and Edmure’s fortunes overnight turned as quickly as you could flip a copper piece.

 

His father had initially told him he would not be going.

 

“You are only five and ten, not even of age.”

 

“Nuncle is going with all the rest of his squires. Am I not as much a squire of his?”

 

“You were, but now you must learn to be a lord as much as a knight.”

 

Edmure rounded, “You went to war when it was your time.”

 

“I was foolish once, aye. Brynden and I had the luck of the warrior we both weren’t killed—otherwise that would have spelled the end of House Tully.”

 

“And if I don’t go I’ll forever be the laughing stock of all the lords my age—for the rest of my life! Prince Oberyn has a bastard son about my age who he's allowing to go!”

 

“There will be plenty of opportunity in your life to prove that talk wrong. But for now, you must stay here and marry.”

 

“Marry?!” exclaimed Edmure. He felt suddenly uncomfortable about this subject, but for a reason he couldn’t quite explain. A woman with dark hair and eyes flitted about his mind and as quickly disappeared before he could recognize her.

 

“Aye, marry. Prince Doran has a daughter.”

 

“Arianne Martell?” asked Edmure.

 

“Aye, her.”

 

“Why Dorne? Cat married the North, Lysa married the East—I would think you’d prefer I’d marry either a lion or a rose given your track record,” grumbled Edmure.

 

“It would be beneficial for the realm as much as it would be for our family.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

His father asked him to lean in so he could speak softly. “Dorne has suffered much. They lost the most men in the rebellion save the Crownlands, their prince of the dragon blood was murdered by his grandfather, their princess has been attempted to be killed by assassins twice, and now their largest town has been burned and sacked. For the good of the realm a marriage further cementing their place in our alliance would be favorable.”

 

“And I would be a kind of balm to their suffering?” snapped Edmure, not liking the comparison even as he made it.

 

“In a way, yes,” admitted his father. It took Edmure everything he had to hold his tongue, but already he vowed to himself he would not marry Arianne Martell, especially for that reason.

 

That day his uncle Brynden and the rest of his squires and Ser Perwyn arrived, preparing to join the gathering soldiers that would board the ships and take sail before the week was out—and Edmure was determined to join them, with or without his father’s permission. Lycus was uncomfortable around Edmure’s friends and fellow lordlings from Riverrun, though he found conversing with Marq apparently pleasing enough given how frequently the two spoke. Lycus was staying in King’s Landing, saying that his father needed him to stay--well at least at first, until Edmure pressed him further on the subject.

 

“Come with me, Marq, Ronald and Hugo are helping me sneak aboard the ship—you can come too. We can have some tales of battles for our grandchildren to tell when they show our portraits to their grandchildren,” urged Edmure.

 

Lycus seemed pale to admit it but he spoke with honesty. “Fighting is something I have never been quite good at, Edmure. It’s why I was captured so easily in Pentos on my return voyage.”

 

“But you still escaped,” reminded Edmure.

 

“By the luck and wisdom of the Crone, aye, but that is all. Go to war, . After all, someone needs to keep the brothels open while you fight for our King.”

 

His words sounded almost like a jape, but Edmure could tell there was something he regretted.

 

The night before his uncle was to set sail, Marq, Ronald, and Hugo managed to sneak him into a barrel with some food and a few slits for air, another barrel was filled with clothes and his armor, and together both barrels were boarded onto the ship. Sometime after they had set sail—mayhaps three or more days at sea after it was too late to turn around to send him back, he’d emerge from the barrel and confront his uncle. He wouldn’t miss this war for anything. The only thing that bothered him was that Lycus would.


	55. Tyrion II

**TYRION**  
  
 _By the time you come of age, I’ll have sorted out all these problems for you…  
_  
His Uncle’s words did mock him. He was but a few days from being called a man and now he was left with decidedly more problems than had been given to him upon his father’s death.  
  
The rebels were only a half-day’s ride from the Rock, a good day and half’s journey by foot, and likely two days considering the sheer of them there were—with the reports stating that they were gathering increasing support as they came south, somewhere between 10,000 and 25,000, depending upon the letter. When they had passed Spearhead Hill, Lord Alyn had sent a raven reporting that they displayed his uncle’s head upon stakes as they marched, and somehow had acquired weapons despite reports of them having been unarmed earlier. Tyrion could hardly believe it. How could his sworn lords fail to respond to the death of his uncle like this? And then Tyrion thought back to what Master Arthur had told him. Lord Alyn was married to Tylla Turnberry—an ugly young woman in looks and temperament—at his uncle’s orders. Now with a growing force of rebels marching through their lands, the lords hoveled up like hedgehogs in a burrow.  
  
 _This is what my uncle has sewn for me, a family name which inspires anger and fickleness. My father was too strong and grasped for too much… but my uncle was too weak and still tried to force matters._  
  
 _I must take a different route…_  
  
He was brought back into the present in what was now his solar by his sister, swelling once again with child as she sat upon the Lord’s chair.  
  
“They likely never were unarmed,” touted Cersei as she nursed his little niece, the golden haired Myrcella.  
  
“Aye, that must be so. The eastern lords write to say they are marching to cross the Western Mountains through the pass at the Golden Tooth. Lord Crakehall is but three days by horse away with some forces he could muster from the southern lords, and we have the goldcloaks of Lannisport at our own disposal,” spoke his goodbrother, Lord Clifton, speaking more to Cersei than to him, Tyrion noticed.  
  
“And how large a force have these men gathered?” asked Tyrion.  
  
“Does it matter? What are a few thousand peasants crudely armed to a trained small army?” countered Cersei boldly.  
  
“A small army that we’re throwing at them piecemeal,” retorted Tyrion.  
  
“You’re forgetting that the guards accompanying our uncle managed to kill a few hundred of them,” recalled Lord Clifton.  
  
“As they were surrounded, jumped from behind, and stripped of their helmets and then beaten to death before a coward could escape to tell us,” replied Tyrion.  
  
Cersei added, “And less than a score of guards could do that, more can rout them.”  
  
“And who will till the earth in their stead, once they are fully routed?” asked Tyrion.  
  
Cersei scoffed, “Does it matter? They are smallfolk. They’re beneath our concern.”  
  
Tyrion stepped forward, just barely able to look over the desk and glared up at his sister, as he shouted with certain anger, “They’re all we should be concerned with. With how few of them we have, we can’t afford to kill them all, unless of course you wish me to tell the Northwestern lords that they are to till their own fields with their own hands.”  
  
“Not all will be killed, most will likely flee and learn their lesson,” dismissed Lord Clifton.  
  
“Do not trouble yourself thinking of these thoughts… brother. You are not yet a man grown. Not for some time yet. Gareth and I—” began Cersei.  
  
“What does it matter if it be a few days until I am six and ten? I am no different now than I will be then! I am the Lion of the Rock, Lady Clifton!” snarled Tyrion.  
  
Cersei seemed ready to snarl back with a reply of her own until Gareth took his wife by her shoulder and then said to Tyrion, “You are of course, right, my lord. Cersei, Myrcella seems to have grown tired, mayhaps you should return her to the nursery?”  
  
Cersei glowered at her husband before huffing as she rose and with a decidedly upturned nose she exited the room with only a passing glare to Tyrion. Once she had left the guards and closed the door Tyrion waddled over to his seat and contemplated finding a good thick cushion to make the height more equal for his body.  
  
“She meant no offense.”  
  
“Lying does not become you, Gareth,” replied Tyrion.  
  
“And if she truly meant you harm, I doubt you’d have made it past infancy, let alone to be nearly a man grown,” he countered.  
  
“We need some way to whittle down their forces to keep from killing as many as we can.”  
  
“There is one thing you might be able to do.”  
  
“Such as?” asked Tyrion.  
  
“Draw up a pardon which states that every man who returns to his lands now will not be pursued or punished, then have someone ride out with a guard and proclaim to them that any who approach the Rock any further will meet with steel upon arrival.”  
  
It wasn’t a half bad suggestion… but from what a few of the letters reported, they longed to see and speak with him.   
  
_Mightn’t more than just the hangers on disperse if I read the pardon aloud myself?_  
  
 _And ignore what fate Uncle Stafford met at their hands? You’d be a fool to try._  
  
 _What lord slaughters the men he needs, needlessly?_  
  
 _Rebels aren’t men you need._  
  
 _Beggars can’t be choosers…_  
  
“That is a good start,” Tyrion began, trying to sound like he was more authoritative than he was by speaking a tad more gruffly than before.  
  
“It’s more than just a good start, it’s how I’ll handle the situation.”  
  
Tyrion did not fail to notice what Gareth had inadvertently said, so he countered, “Then make sure that there’s a group of goldcloaks to escort me on the morrow.”  
  
Gareth’s face faltered.  
  
“You can’t be thinking—” began Gareth.  
  
“I am.”  
  
“Surely after your uncle’s fate—”  
  
“I am not my uncle! You just told me that you were about to do the same, didn’t you?”  
  
“I—well, a minor lord as a messenger is expendable—but the Lord Paramount?”  
  
“Gareth, we receive reports of these rebels’ movements from our sworn lords. Do any of them come out and show their loyalty to their Lord Paramount?”  
  
“The southern and eastern lords—”  
  
“Are on their way, but what of the Northern and Western lords?  
  
“They are few, young, and it is their own forces which rise in rebellion.”  
  
“If I all of them were so, I would not press the point. But if they in this time of need can be allowed to do only the bare minimum that loyalty allows, then who’s to say the Southern and Eastern lords are not far behind them?” challenged Tyrion.  
  
“It’s too dangerous for—”  
  
Tyrion, standing upon the chair now and placing his hands firmly upon his desk growled over his desk, “A Lord Paramount must be seen to be a lord paramount! If I ask my sworn lords to face danger, then not go myself, then I deserve lords who hide in their castles like cravens. If I’m ever to be seen as a liege lord in my own right, I must do what my father did, and seize their loyalties through strength of action! It must be me or the House of Lannister would be better off being the petty lords we were before the fall of the Casterlys.”  
  
Gareth stared in wonder at Tyrion, and seemed almost afraid of Tyrion, before shaking his head and beginning, “I insist you at least allow me to accompany you—”  
  
“And leave my sister as the sole Lady of the Rock?” scoffed Tyrion.  
  
“You do that already with this plan of yours,” countered Gareth.  
  
Tyrion rolled his eyes and said, “Then mayhaps it is she who we must send then—for surely the rebels would not dare hurt the Mother incarnate with a babe in her belly and one at her breast.”  
  
Gareth almost glowered at Tyrion at the mere suggestion of it, but Tyrion ignored his look.  
  
“I’ll speak with the head of your guard for you, then,” was Gareth’s measured reply after a long silence.  
  
Tyrion corrected him as he turned to leave, “No, go and tell him that I wish to speak with him.”  
  
Gareth was paused for but a moment before turning to smile and say, “Of course, my lord.”  
  
Tyrion slumped back into his chair once Gareth had departed. It would not be so difficult to be a liege lord… all he needed was their respect—neither love nor fear would ever work for him. People were too apt to despise or laugh at him. But respect—hard earned through labor and dirty hands—that could last him a lifetime.  
  
He reminded himself of this truth as he rode forth surrounded by Lannisport goldcloaks and the remainder of the Rock’s guards that could be spared from making the Rock indefensible. He felt jittery within the gold plated armor forged for him as he bounced upon the back of his horse, but he kept reminding himself that respect was earned through labor, and this would be the first of many trials. Ser Preston Greenfield did not make him feel any more at ease as the man had an uneasy glint to his eye. The newly appointed captain of his guard rode beside him with one hand on his reigns, and the other ready to draw his sword.  
  
When the rebels were in sight, Tyrion sent forth a messenger to bring the mass to a stop and see how they would react. He was not his uncle—he would not go charging blindly into a crowd of rebels and disaffected smallfolk. The messenger boy, a squire to Ser Preston from the Yarwyck family, was even more nervous than he was; nearly falling off his pony by the way he shook in his saddle.  
  
“Don’t look so glum, Eurig, they’re not as like to harm a boy like you,” assured Tyrion, though he felt he were assuring himself just as much of the same thing.  
  
The messenger looked up at Ser Preston nervously before continuing, as though afraid of something behind overheard. “It isn’t that, my lord… truly… but I… I heard, my lord—”  
  
“Squire, get yourself gone!” bellowed Ser Preston angrily, who had stopped japing with one of the goldcloaks to notice his squire’s actions.  
  
“Aye, Ser,” squeaked the small adolescent of what was likely ten or one and ten namedays as he then spurred his pony onward.  
  
“The lad will be the death of me, yet,” grumbled Ser Preston.  
  
“I hope not, Ser, for then I might acquire an ill gotten reputation that any man who becomes the captain of my guard has not long to live. And that will make an already trying process even harder.”  
  
To Tyrion’s surprise the knight grunted what could almost pass for a laugh.  
  
I’ll win them over yet… I have to… my life depends upon them.  
  
Tyrion watched as small Eurig and his pony rode the distance to the rebel crowd, which took notice of him as he approached. They haphazardly stopped and Tyrion heard the announcement of his forthcoming from Eurig’s high but loud voice which carried far enough. When the rebels only seemed to talk amongst themselves with no action being taken against young Eurig, Tyrion rode forth, with Ser Preston and his guard not far behind. Tyrion approached the crowd, but was careful not to enter it—he would not repeat his uncle’s missteps.  
  
“My good people, I come before you—” he began, prepared to deliver his ultimatum. But not long after he had begun to speak shouts from the crowd arose.  
  
“That’s not Lord Lannister!”  
  
“He’s sent his fool!”  
  
“Lord Lannister mocks our suffering!”  
  
“Death to all Lannisters!”  
  
Tyrion could not speak above the rabble of the rebels any further, looking for support, he turned to Ser Preston and the goldcloaks, only to find that they had begun to turn and ride away. Only young Eurig was left.  
  
 _Betrayal!_  
  
It was not long after that that he was pulled off his horse, his special saddle straps being cut and him being stripped of his armor.  
  
 _I have made a foolish error…_  
  
Young Eurig, the only one nearby leaped off his horse and fought to get near him, but was easily pushed aside, being but a boy. He soon felt a knife to his throat and counted down the seconds until he too would wear a ruby necklace about his throat.  
  
But die he did not.  
  
“You’re coming with me, little Lord Lannister…” growled a man in his ear with dark hair and eyes, whose very presence reeked from weeks upon the road and a beard grown unkempt from lack of care.  
  
“What do you want the dwarf for, Farran?” asked one of the crowd.  
  
It was then his captor turned and Tyrion got to see that Eurig was being held captive as well, fighting but being subdued with a few punches to his stomach.   
  
His captor proclaimed, “Don’t we deserve to have a fool of our own to make us laugh?”  
  
A general laugh went out amongst the crowd and Tyrion dreaded what was likely to be his lot.


	56. Renly

**RENLY**  
  
Renly was quite proud of the fact that he was now squiring for his brother—the insurmountable wall who had held Storm’s End in the rebellion. Robert had written to Stannis a week after the attack on Plankytown, suggesting that Renly squire with Lord Tyrell—but Renly loathed the idea from the start. It was enough he had to marry the rose lord’s daughter—a chubby little thing who was barely out of the nursery and followed after her elder brother Loras—an equally grubby nosed child beneath Renly’s concern. After all, Renly was now of age to squire, an as Stannis put it, he was beginning the path to be a man and rightly lord. As such, Stannis had taken him to squire for the duration of the war  
  
“I would have you learn something of the sea, Renly. After the war I’ll find you a knight skilled enough to train you in those skills,” was all that Stannis said, and all that Renly needed to have said before he tackled every book the maester had suggested on sea voyaging. Most of the books were dull and boring to read, but a few had nice drawings in them explaining all the parts of your typical drummond or galley. Stannis had looked rather pleased when Renly was seen with a naval book in his hands. It was hard to tell, but Renly knew the sign, but the slight upturn in the corner of Stannis’ mouth. That was as close to a smile as his brother ever got, and Renly reveled in the moments when he managed to produce that from his brother.  
  
He almost saw Stannis as a father—he was like a father in every other way to him—more than a brother. In fact sometimes when Renly imagined his parents’ faces when he closed his eyes at night, he imagined that his father, Steffon, looked more like Stannis—premature balding and all—than Robert. He had been far too young when their father had died to remember his face truly, which is why he allowed himself the indulgence.  
  
The night before they were to leave for King’s Landing was eventful indeed. Stannis had pulled him aside and said quite seriously, “When we arrive at King’s Landing I will treat you as I would any other squire, Renly. Do you understand that?”  
  
“Aye,” said Renly quickly without a second thought.  
  
Stannis did not look convinced and so he pressed on—his mouth pressed tight and thin, “Just because you are my brother, doesn’t mean you have any more or less privileges than Narbert does.” Narbert was Stannis’ current squire who was but a nameday older than Renly. He was a stout youth with brown of hair and green of eyes—both dark in hue. He had a tendency to have a runny nose and was a bit clumsy—but what he lacked for in coordination, he made up in for zeal and devotion to Stannis.  
  
Stannis continued still, “I’ll warn you this once—do not let your pride or emotions rule you in public if I act in a manner which you are unaccustomed to. Being a squire is to begin your path to becoming a man, and as such, I expect—”  
  
“He’s not listening to a word you’re saying now,” interjected Lorra as she gently patting Shireen’s small back. She had his niece draped over her shoulder.  
  
“I am so!” protested Renly.  
  
“He had the same glazed look in his eyes as you have of occasion…” teased Lorra with a wink to Stannis which caused his cheeks to go ever so slightly red as he scowled.  
  
“If I ever do get such a look in my eye, I will tell you if I missed anything you said. And I imagine that Renly would say as much to me as well, correct?”  
  
“Of course, brother.”  
  
“Say, my lord, from now until you are knighted,” gritted Stannis  
  
The words were hard to come at first, Renly almost felt as though they were caught in his throat, but came they did. The corner of Stannis’ lip then rose ever so slightly and for Renly, that was enough to ensure that the words would never be so difficult to say again.  
  
When he had retired for the night, he heard the gentle patter of rain against his window—it was likely to storm tonight, which would make tomorrow’s travel cold and muddy. Renly did not look forward to trudging through the mud—they ruined plenty of his boots already. Hadn’t the blasted thing had enough? He grumbled to himself as he felt his eyelids grow heavy and droop. It must have been hours later, though it felt like just the next moment to him—but he awoke nonetheless to someone shaking his shoulders. There was only one person who would wake him up like that, and he turned over onto his other side to face her.  
  
Casanna or Cass as the family preferred to call her—Stannis said this was to distinguish her from mother—stood there with wide frightened blue eyes and tangled long black hair at the edge of his bed. Dressed in a pale white shift that was a tad too big for her, she looked impossibly small in comparison to the darkness which engulfed the chamber around her. Beyond the typical Baratheon features though, Cass showed every sign of taking after her mother in looks—far unlike little Shireen, who resembled more of Stannis than Lorra.  
  
He sighed and pulled back the covers for the young three namedays child as was their usual custom that she had developed a habit of since baby Shireen had begun to take up most of Lorra’s time, as such, it was Renly’s job to comfort his niece. A storm had likely come and brought thunder and lightning along with it. Odd considering he did not hear any thunder or see any lightning from his windows—though the steady rhythm of the rain from earlier remained unchanged.   
  
“What’s wrong?” he asked as she climbed up onto his bed.  
  
“Bad dream,” mumbled his niece, avoiding his eyes as she settled on the bed in a sitting position, he rose to meet her, though he longed to bury his head in his pillow and return to his dreams.  
  
 _By the Seven I’m to follow the path of the Warrior next, not the Father…_  
  
He sighed and inquired, like he knew he should, “Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
Cass was still for a while before she tentatively nodded.  
  
Renly waited patiently for his young niece to begin speaking but she seemed oddly affected by something. It might have been a flash of lightning—odd considering there was no thunder, but Renly swore that for a moment he saw her eyes go completely white for just an instant. He then urged her on by saying, “It generally takes more than one person to talk about something.”  
  
She spoke suddenly quite clearly and with a piercing look to his eyes. She spoke far more clearly than he had ever heard her until that point in his life, speak. The irises of her eyes were so small her eyes looked nearly completely blue.  
  
“Don’t go to Essos!”  
  
“What?” he asked clearly confused as to what she was referring.  
  
“In my dream, you… went to Essos and you were swallowed whole by a big black dragon! Don’t go to Essos!” She repeated herself, as if to pound the point further.  
  
“A big black dragon? Have you been sneaking a look at those eggs again?”  
  
“Promise me you’ll stay!” she asserted, reaching for him as she did.  
  
“Cass, I—” he began, but then she suddenly grabbed his arm—harder than he had ever felt her grab him until that time, and what he was about to say flew out of his mind before he had a chance to say anything.  
  
“Promise me you won’t go!” she insisted fiercely—as though it were some matter of life or death.  
  
Renly was scared of his young niece in that moment—he didn’t know what had come over her, but it clearly wouldn’t ease up until he satisfied it, and so he promised her he would not go to Essos.  
  
She held onto him tighter, urging him to, “Swear it!”  
  
“I promised it,” he reminded her.  
  
“Now swear it!” she demanded, her grip growing quite unusually strong.  
  
And so he swore it, on his honor as a Baratheon—with a look upon her face almost eerily like Stannis’ in that instant—he hoped that this at long last would get her to lighten up, and to calm down.  
  
Almost instantly whatever had overcome his little niece seemed almost immediately to depart, her eyes rolled up into her head, she let go of him and she collapsed into him with the greatest sense of relief that he’d ever seen on someone.  
  
“Y—you all right, Cass?” he asked her, his voice trembling to speak. He held her close to try and comfort her.  
  
She spoke oddly, as though half asleep, “The dragon opened its mouth wide and burned you whole, before grabbing you with his claws and ripping you in half and biting off your head… you were screaming so horribly until he did… and there was blood everywhere… and fire, ice, and death.”  
  
Renly froze in that instant.  
  
 _She dreamed that?! She should be dreaming of fine knights and princesses or whatever is in a song, not monsters!_  
  
In his mind’s eye he could see it, almost everything she was describing—and gods was it a terrible sight.  
  
“Cass…” he whispered when he had recovered himself enough to speak.  
  
But she had fallen to sleep in his arms, seemingly sweet and innocent once again. Shaken, Renly gently lowered her onto the bed and then tried to get some sleep himself—but each time he closed his eyes he saw the dream Cass had described haunted him still. The oddest thing of all though, was that come morning Cass could not recall anything she had told him the night previously, and bounded off the bed as if it were any other morning.  
  
After they arrived at King’s Landing, Stannis assigned Renly to lodgings with Narbert Grandison. For his part, Renly didn’t complain. The bed was a thin straw mattress and the pillow half beaten to uselessness, but it could be far worse, Renly concluded. He and Narbert actually had a small room of their own. Even if it was piss poor and barely larger than a nook, it was far above what most other squires had. Most after all, slept on the floor by their knight—or so Ser Courtney had warned him. As part of their schedule, there was always to be at least one of them with Stannis from when he rose to when he went to sleep. When the other was not on duty, the other was to take lessons with the tutor Stannis had hired for them, or be out in the practice yard. They would not stay in King’s Landing for long, Stannis assured them, saying that soon they would be on a deck, but while they were here, it would be best to make use of what was available. And as such, Narbert and Renly agreed with one another upon some schedule and kept to it, rotating easily.  
  
One afternoon, after nearly a week and a half of staying in King’s Landing, Renly was on duty during a small council session. Stannis told him under no reason was he to speak without first being addressed during one of the meetings, and as such the meeting Renly found to be rather dull. This afternoon, however, was the first exception. As he stood upon the periphery of the room—ready to be called at a moment’s notice—he watched as the council moved pieces about a map of the Narrow Sea, and argued over their meanings.  
  
“I still say a clean sweep through the islands would flush them out!” boomed Robert.  
  
“And let them know we’re coming long before we get there,” countered Stannis.  
  
“And if the pirates all amass together and come at your little scouting parties?” rumbled Robert.  
  
Stannis opposed, “They’re pirates, your grace, not a true naval fleet.”   
  
“Lord Baratheon has the right of it, your grace,” interjected Lord Arryn at that moment.  
  
“You too, Denys?” groaned Robert.  
  
Lord Arryn continued, “I would not say for sure, but I’d imagine fighting pirates is like fighting the mountain clans in the Vale. You send an organized group of men in formation up into the hills, and they’ll pick at them until they’ve nearly wiped you clean dead. The Pirates know those waters—they know which islands have good coves for hiding in, and which dangers to avoid even more intimately than the sea merchants do themselves.”  
  
“But we know where their bloody hideout is!” rumbled Robert as he picked up a piece and hammered it down upon a certain section of the map to make his point.  
  
“That may not be their only hideaway,” offered Lord Tully  
  
“And what does my Lord of Intelligence have to say?” grumbled Robert.  
  
Prince Oberyn, who had seemed distracted until this moment shook his head and rubbed his temples before speaking, “I have not heard from the man I sent there since he sent me word of that island your grace…”  
  
“You haven’t heard from him?!” exclaimed Robert.  
  
Prince Oberyn sighed and clarified, “Well, I’ve heard from him, but there is nothing more in what he says that we do not already know.”  
  
“I still say we send the entire fleet there and smash the island to pieces and run a clean sweep through the rest of ‘em,” grumbled Robert, though he seemed less convinced of his own idea.  
  
“If you expect them to act like they sail with the Prince of Tyrosh or Lys, then we will only lose the fleet we’ve spent the last few years building in a few weeks.”  
  
“And that would have been a waste of coin!” quipped Lord Qarlton.  
  
One thing Renly had to say about this small council meeting in particular—Robert kept it interesting. His eldest brother and King glared at his Lord Treasurer, and Renly had to fight back the urge to burst into laughter at the sight—only catching Stannis’ stern face managed to bring some amount of control to him once again.   
Lord Tully admonished the Lord Treasurer, “That is hardly a concern now, Lord Qarlton—wars cost coin, there’s no simple fact around that.”  
  
“And am I to let what is left of the Royal Treasury be depleted and see the Iron Throne in debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos?”  
  
“If the war necessitates that we do so, then we will do so. But we are not yet in that situation, are we?”  
  
“I’ve put on hold all extraneous projects. The only matter to worry about now is if Lys and Tyrosh join the fray…” warned Lord Qarlton.  
  
“What word do you have on that, Prince Oberyn?” asked Robert testily.  
  
Prince Oberyn seemed more in control of himself as he added, “Lys is somewhat more amenable to the idea of turning a blind eye—so long as we don’t send an entire fleet through their waters, but Tyrosh says we are to respect their boundaries per the treaty we signed after the Ninepenny War.”  
  
“What do those damned hair dyers want those rocks for anyway?” grumbled Robert.  
  
“They’re able to charge a levy on ships traveling through the Stepstones, and it earns them quite a bit of coin,” reasoned Lord Qarlton.  
  
“Lys does much the same, but isn’t as dependent upon the revenue.  
  
“Aye, but Lys is better positioned to receive trade from the Jade Sea and Slaver’s Bay—while Tyrosh has to act as the gatekeeper to the Narrow Sea to make nearly as much wealth as Lys does,” explained Lord Qarlton.  
  
“And you would think getting rid of the bloody pirates would be of benefit to them!” roared Robert, pounding his fist upon the table.  
  
Prince Oberyn interjected now, “Tyrosh I believe has a tendency to hire ships for their purpose, who when trade is short raid our shores.”  
  
“Then to war with them as well!” roared Robert, standing up so furiously he knocked over all the pieces on the map laid out upon the weirwood table.  
  
Renly could only stare in awe at his eldest brother as the rest of his council argued him to try and see sense about keeping Tyrosh out of the war altogether.


	57. Benjen II

**BENJEN**

 

He was ready to make sail when a man arrived with a missive from Winterfell. Benjen had only been away for a little more than a fortnight and already Lya was writing to him, just as she had when she was away in King’s Landing. Or so he had thought until he saw the handwriting on the letter to be somewhat different than Lya’s messy loops. This handwriting was large and slightly curved, but for the large part lacked any loops. Worried for the worst for Lya’s sake he quickly broke the seal without lingering on its dark green color.

 

He looked at the signature to see that it was from Elyssa, one of Lyanna’s ladies-in-waiting, the one whom he had thought might have been interested in his offer, but had deferred answering it to a later time. Was she now doing so?

 

_To Lord Benjen Stark,_

_I write partly on behalf of the Queen to assure you of her continued recovery from the birthing bed, but also for myself. I believe I can better express my thoughts considering the offer you proposed to me before departing for the South. Becoming the lady of your castle and being assured of a well provided dotage has its desires. I would be my own woman and Lady of the castle after your departure for the Wall, with at least two sons to preserve and protect me, as you so put it. I can very easily believe it to be a comfortable life. You have been honest with me and I thought it only right now to be honest with you since I feel more confident in my ability to explain my answer beyond the simple fact that there was little time to think on your proposal. Should you survive this war, I would look forward to making further acquaintance and spending more time in your company so as to come to know you better as a man. It is not that I doubt the Queen’s high regard for you to not be a recommendation itself, but we know so little of each other. Even the most distant of arranged marriages have a betrothal period long enough for both man and woman to come to know one another. Until you are at such liberty to do so I shall pray to the Father to see you bring justice to the villains who burned Plankytown, to the mother for her mercy, the warrior so your blade may be sharp and swift, and the Stranger that he may not take you before we have a better chance than which the Gods, yours and mine, have ordained until this time._

_Lady Elyssa Waynwood_

 

Benjen did not know how to react at first, but the more he dwelt on her letter, the more he wondered if he had preferred thinking that Lady Elyssa’s deferral of an answer be solely to whether he would survive the war or not, than explanation this letter gave him instead. He did not like to think it was such a great question to answer for it would be a marriage of convenience and none other, not with his determination to see the Wall. To try for any other, what need would there be for that? Besides as Ned had suggested, if he could not find a wife before Lady Mormont’s eldest daughter was of age to marry, that that would be the match to make. Benjen was desperate to wed and give heirs, for as soon as that second son was born, that meant there were only six and ten years until he could go to the Wall, and each year he failed to find a wife, was yet another until he could go to the Wall. He had thought when Ned had made the suggestion to him of Lady Mormont’s eldest daughter to be such a ways off that surely he could have found a wife before such a child was a woman grown. If he recalled her age correctly, she would be a woman grown a year and a few moons beyond it—time enough for the war to drag on. If it were a short war, he might comply with Lady Elyssa’s wishes, but if it proved long, and Lady Mormont’s eldest daughter was prepared for the match, he knew it would be Lord Jorah’s niece who he would take to wife. He only regretted that Lady Elyssa was less than compilable. From having spent what little time he had with her, he knew her to be good-natured and intelligent. She also had the loveliest eyes he had yet seen on a woman.

 

No matter, Lady Elyssa or a Lady Mormont, he would be married at war’s end no matter what. Benjen then rose and exited his cabin that he shared with Lord Manderly’s son, Wylis, the brother to Benjen’s own bannerman branch of House Manderly headed by Lord Wendel—who his father was on about finding a wife. Half the time he had spent in the Merman’s Court had been with Lord Wyman discussing how to convince Wendel to find a suitable match and have heirs. In truth Benjen, feeling some sympathy for being forced into such an endeavor planned on urging no such thing to Wendel, but he had to play the part of amicable fellow Lord to Lord Wyman nonetheless. Benjen did not promise Lord Wyman—he simply said he would discuss the matter with Wendel, with Lord Wyman giving many suggestions on how to broach the subject with his bachelor son. Thankfully, Wylis seemed as interested in the subject as Benjen was, and did not mention it to him in the least.

 

Benjen asked a crewman where he could find the captain, and he was pointed in the direction of the fore deck. He passed a few passengers he had not seen before, with crew still handling trunks and some last minute additions to cargo it seemed before he climbed above decks. It was a windy day in the harbor, grey and overcast with a slight freezing mist of water about in the air—but Benjen wouldn’t have called rain. There he found the Captain Qyrmet Wygar, a violet of hair and light green of eye Braavosi who looked only a few years Benjen’s elder, and yet acted as if he had seen a decade or more of life than Benjen had. Lord Manderly had employed his sail and seemed to trust him from the manner which Benjen had heard him talk of him.

 

At the moment the Captain, who was dressed rather haphazardly dressed considering the weather, in only a shirt, trousers and boots from what Benjen could see—his hat with a feather in it being the only indication of his station—was speaking to a young boy whom Benjen could instantly see from his eyes was the Captain’s son.

 

“Get along you rascal,” finished the Captain with an affectionate tussle of the lad’s dark hair soon after he saw Benjen’s approach.

 

“We ready to make sail, then Captain?” asked Benjen, approaching after the boy had scampered off.

 

Captain Qyrmet gestured over “There are a few stragglers yet, my lord—who’ve just arrived from Bear Island. Mayhaps you should greet them.”

 

Benjen nodded to indicate he would before he asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

 

“Cold? My lord, I’ve sailed the Shivering Sea. But this? Bahh, this be but a little cold snap,” dismissed Qyrmet before heading for the aft to scold a layabout member of his crew.

 

Benjen then made his way towards the boarding men—well given the ages he was seeing they were just barely men or older boys. Seeing them board the ship truly brought home to Benjen just how Bear Island had been affected by Euron Greyjoy. Ned had said that marrying Lady Mormont’s daughter would have been a good nod to show the people remaining on Bear Island that they had not been forgotten by the rest of the North. Benjen had snapped in response that he had the final say in who would be his wife, and Ned had not said a word further on the matter. Now Benjen was regretting his words. An island of only children whose parents had been taken from them, scattered by Essosi slavers or held captive by Euron Greyjoy. These were boys and young men who had to have grown up fatherless, much like he had since father’s death. They had one another, to be sure, like he had had Ned, but that was not the same thing as having a father—or even a mother, now that Benjen thought it. He saw one boy in particular, with short black hair and grey eyes, who was dressed in worn dark brown leathers with a black bear paw on them that seemed meant for a man of a bit more bulk than his lanky frame contained. As Benjen approached the collection of young men and adolescent boys, the one boy he had noticed, separated himself and stepped forward to meet his approach separated from the rest.

 

“Lord Benjen Stark,” said the boy with a solemn nod and a voice that had not yet dropped as far as Benjen could tell.

 

_He must be even younger than he looks…_

 

“Aye, and you are?” asked Benjen.

 

At this the boy seemed to pause for a moment before saying, “Evan… Evan Paw.”

 

“Of House Paw, sworn to House Mormont?” asked Benjen.

 

Again there was an odd pause before he confirmed, “Aye. I come with some of the best fighters Bear Island has to offer for this war.”

 

Benjen could not help but notice in that moment how a dark look flitted across Evan’s eye at the mere mention of the war.

 

_He longs for vengeance…_

 

Benjen could hardly blame him. Were Aerys not already dead, and if Ned had fallen, he would have felt it his own duty to see House Targaryen pay for their crimes against his family.

 

It was an hour or so more before they could make sail again at high tide, leading the small Eastern Fleet south to King’s Landing, where they would join the Royal Fleet.

 

Benjen took his rations with Master Arthur and his not-a-squire, as the impressive young swordsman by the name of Clegane insisted he wasn’t. Master Arthur wasn’t at ease aboard the ship, barely touching his food, so Benjen attempted to keep Jon’s uncle off of the meal and the rolling waves by discussing as much as he could of Jon to the Dornish Warrior. Clegane added in his own bits here and there, eventually turning the subject to how Jon, as well as the other boys had acted rather oddly amongst

 

“What do the Old Gods require of you?” asked Master Arthur uneasily.

 

“I would have thought, being of First Men blood, that of all Southerners you’d have a bit of an idea,” jibed Benjen, while avoiding the question. In truth he was not a very religious man, and what he had seen from the displays of the powers of the gods through Great Uncle Brandon, and the four boys was more than enough to put him off taking it up very seriously. That is to say, he wouldn’t abandon the faith of his fathers, but he was a little more respectful of the distance that had grown between the Gods and his fellow believers—for to be touched by the Gods, as Benjen saw in his nephews, was a fearful thing indeed.

 

Arthur expostulated, “There are stories of course, but very few south of the Neck who still practice the Old ways as undisturbed as you Northerners.”

 

“I would not say that we are so pure in our faith—that is, with time faith changes and evolves, does it not?” deflected Benjen.

 

“Quit bloody avoiding the question,” growled Clegane.

 

“Have a care, man” snapped Benjen as he brought his mug of ale down to the table, slightly spilling it over his hand in the process.

 

“Forgive him, Lord Stark, my… friend is not always so decorous as he ought to be. Something which has gotten him into more than enough trouble already,” smoothed Arthur with a knowing look to Clegane that seemed to pacify the Westerlands warrior oddly enough.

 

Feeling obligated to answer something in response to Arthur, Benjen said, “For many years it seemed as though the Gods were silent without whispering. All the Greenseers had vanished with the Children, or so we had thought.”

 

Clegane broke in confused at this point with, “Greenseer?”

 

“Septons for the Old Gods,” answered Arthur.

 

Benjen clarified, “Except one does not choose to be one, but is instead born a Greenseer.”

 

Or made one possibly, Benjen contemplated, given the odd conversations Robb, Jon, and Raynald he had overheard them having in the godswood recently, and the odd relationship Theon had developed with a raven that had taken to liking him and poked at Maester Luwin whenever he attempted to separate the two to try and train it for letter carrying.

 

“Septons say the same—the Seven chose me and all that nonsense,” said the Westerlander with rather a impious dismissal.

 

“No, greenseers are literally born as what they are,” explained Benjen

 

“And how do you know this?” asked Arthur.

 

Benjen did not want to answer truthfully that two boys just barely beginning with wooden swords had said this when he had asked why they were so protective over their younger brother Bran, so he said instead, “It is simply part of the faith in the Old Gods.”

 

“So, if greenseers are born, then how come I haven’t met one?”

 

_Oh you’ve met one, but you’d hardly believe me if I told you that!_

 

Benjen recalled the answer Robb had given him to this very question he’d asked after asking why Bran was so important, and repeated it for the Dornish and Westerlander men he broke bread with.

 

“The number of greenseers around is affected by the number of people who have faith. The fewer followers there are the fewer greenseers are born.”

 

“Hah! I wish the Seven worked as such! Septons are a bloody nuisance,” grumbled Clegane, which at this one of the crew—likely a White Harbor man—stood and came over to their table. He was a grungy sailor that was plainly obvious.

 

“Forgive me, my lord, but I’d have some words with this here knight who speaks of Septons and the Seven like he does,” grunted the bearded man to Benjen before locking eyes with the Westerland warrior.

 

“I’m no knight,” growled Clegane, attempting to rise, but was kept in his seat with a quick hand to his shoulder by Arthur.

 

“He would gladly speak with you over theological matters at some other time—but now while our food is still upon our plates—is hardly the time for such lofty discussions,” diffused Arthur with a pale look to his face.

 

The man seemed satisfied for the moment with such a promise and returned to his own table rather testily.

 

“Remember your quest,” counseled Arthur rather patiently.

 

“Bugger that!” exclaimed Sandor.

 

“I’m sure Helena would appreciate to know you hold that sentiment so dearly,” tutted Arthur pointedly.

 

A sour look overcame Clegane, and he said not a word for the remainder of the meal.

 

Arthur then asked, “But what laws do the Old Gods require of you?”

 

“Your gods are the ones with all the rules,” replied Benjen good-naturedly, though he wondered now if that was only something that they had told themselves as greenseers had grown rarer in number.

 

“So there are no laws?” questioned Arthur, Clegane suddenly looking interested at that.  


Benjen bluffed, “I wouldn’t say that, but the Old Gods don’t govern all aspects of life from the cradle to the grave, just the important ones…”

 

At this point Benjen hoped to find excuse to change the subject or for someone to interrupt them, or for a bloody distraction of some kind. Thankfully it seemed the gods had heard him for then Evan Paw walked by and Benjen gave his excuse to Masters Arthur and Clegane, saying that he needed to speak with the young Bear Islander, and departed.

 

Benjen of course had not counted on Evan Paw, after leaving the galley, waiting to speak with him.

 

“I stand here, hearing you wish to speak with me?” questioned the boy with a knowing smirk.

 

Benjen however bluffed his way through this as well asking, “Aye, earlier you said that you had brought the finest fighting force from Bear Island with you, I’d like to know their strengths in more detail so I can advise my brother on how best to use them.”

 

It was a concern that he had to address at some point. Why not now?

 

And so Evan, surprised by his response, went into a full description of his companions strengths and weaknesses—he’d brought a fair number of archers, axemen, and a three or four decent with a sword and trying to teach the others the same proficiency.

 

Benjen tutted good-naturedly, “You’ve left one man out in your accounts.”

 

“Have I? I do believe I’ve told you all of my men,” answered Evan as they walked the aft deck. The clouds had parted giving a spectacular view of the stars and the nearly blackened moon.

 

“But what of yourself, Master Paw?” asked Benjen.

 

Blushing at his oversight, the boy admitted, “While I’m good with an ax, sword, and bow, I prefer a mace, myself.”

 

“You are that proficient with weapons?” questioned Benjen, thinking it odd that a boy from such a lower house having grown up without a father could be that skilled with that many weapons.

 

“I am good with them, but I prefer a mace in my hands,” clarified Evan.

 

And there Benjen made the distinction he had not made before in Evan’s skills.

 

“Tell me of Bear Island,” urged Benjen, desiring to continue the conversation, but having seen their first topic to its completion.

 

“Another time, I fear I’m in need of a slop bucket,” answered Evan.

 

“Just go off the side here. I’ll turn around if it bothers you,” answered Benjen easily enough.

 

Evan blushed even further before saying, “Forgive me my lord, but it is the other… um… end.”

 

It was Benjen’s turn to blush as the Bear Islander took his leave and rushed below decks to find the nearest slop bucket.

 

Such was the easy manner of the voyage for some days, until they came to the edge of Blackwater Bay when the call came out from the crow’s nest of several ships being spotted to the East, all flying the Archon of Tyrosh’s banner of a pear speared with a sword on a field of blue, heading straight for them and Blackwater Bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who have been paying close attention to past chapters will pick up on something rather quickly in this chapter. If not, they'll have to wait for the next Benjen chapter to have it revealed to them.


	58. Helena II

**HELENA**

 

Her moonsblood did not arrive for the second moon, and by her third moon she felt her gowns beginning to feel restricting upon her body. Feeling such confirmation to her plans at once put Helena at ease—the Mother had heard her prayers and been merciful enough not to make a liar of her, but the growing babe within her also brought with it a certain anxiety she had not anticipated.

 

She was to be a mother. Seven help her she actually had a babe growing inside of her—a pup of a babe. Growing up she had never expected to have a child, and for the first few years of her marriage in name to Sandor she had continued to believe that she would end up a Septa in a Sept somewhere far away from the Westerlands. And then she began to blossom into a woman grown and watched as her husband in name grew increasingly to be a man grown and the darker thoughts she had thought herself too pure as a child to ever consider, had taken their hold and suddenly the thought of being Lady Clegane for the rest of her days was not such a horrible fate. His looks at her had only confirmed it and she had eagerly jumped upon even the slightest of hints—desirous of having him and keeping him before she could lose him forever. She did not regret consummating the marriage, not in the least. And the idea in abstract of having a child with Sandor was pleasing enough to imagine—to imagine the child there before her, like she had found Conhur, with no threat or danger on her part was fantasy—the reality of having to actually carry the child to term to bring either her or him screaming into this world—the chance of her dying, brought back some of the old fears she had had about childbirth. Her mother had died giving birth to her—of a fever that had set in not long after Helena had been born. What if she contracted a fever? No. No, she could not think that way…

 

Conhur continued to be treated illy by his stepfather as they stayed at Boarshead Hall. The poor boy was not permitted to eat with the rest of the family, nor did he take lessons with his half-brother Sandor—although that last part Helena was sure was best for both her nephew and for Conhur. Though she only knew simple basics, she did the best she could to keep Conhur learning to read and write well, and know the symbols of all the different houses that he could. He may only ever have a future as a bastard-born knight in service to House Clegane, but Helena would see he’d have the best tools at his disposal to make something of himself. The lords of Westeros would be cruel enough when they saw yellow dogs on brown. A good mind and a skilled body would be his tools… the only problem was how to shield his heart. Conhur was very sweet by nature and very easily affected by slights Helena was apt to notice. She did her best to soothe him, and his half-sister Lymera seemed to help to some degree as well preferring his company to that of little Sandor’s, but it still did not explain to the little boy why he had to take his meals at the lower tables with servants and squires, why his mother avoided looking at him, or why the squires called him names, or why he his bed was with the stable boys—that she herself put an end to by having a cot put into her room and moving him to there—oddly to little complaint from Lymond. These were not the worst things to endure, but to a boy as sweet as Conhur was, it was soul crushing—that was clear enough to her. She caught Lymond on one of his trips to his Maester’s rookery.

 

“I have allowed him to stay under my roof, what more do you expect of me?” challenged Lymond as they crossed the muddy yard.

 

“At least order your servants to be civil to him,” scowled Helena.

 

“Helena, do not forget who his father was. He may look like your husband, but he is Calena’s son, not yours.”

 

She retorted, “She hardly acts like his mother. All she’s done is stare at him as though he were some prized painting or a delicately painted jug from Asshai.”

 

He began ascending the steps to the Maester’s tower, shouting behind himself, “You don’t give her the opportunity to do so.”

 

As she lifted her skirts and followed after him up to the rookery at the top she called after him, “Do I? I am not with him at all hours of the day. There was a sennight when I was sick in bed. She has had moons to be a mother to him. Am I to blame for her regrets as she confines herself for the birth of yet another child?”

 

Lymond ignored this challenge and simply continued the ascent until he reached the rookery where his Maester was examining a letter that looked as though it had recently arrived. From the red wax, Helena guessed it to be from Casterly Rock.

 

“At long last,” grumbled Lymond as he snatched the letter from his Maester so swiftly he disturbed a few of the ravens into shaking their feathers and cawing perturbedly.

 

Helena had only just found a spot in the cramped rookery that wasn’t currently occupied by some ravens and their droppings when Lymond tore open the letter and began reading it. Apparently it held quite bad news from how his eyes bulged and his lips pressed into a thin line of a scowl. Not long after having opened it, Lymond folded it and headed straight for the steps.

 

“Should I prepare a response, my lord?” questioned the maester.

 

“I shall write one myself!” called Lymond as he continued unabated to descend the stairs. Quite curious and not wishing to have a letter’s response finish their conversation on Conhur, Helena followed.

 

She called after Lymond, but he continued his brisk pace that she could hardly keep up in with her skirts. He strode purposefully to the guards and barked at them to prepare the most capable men to be ready to depart Boarshead Hall in a little over an hour.

 

It wasn’t until she managed to grabbed his arm that he at long last addressed her.

 

“Let go of me, Helena!” snapped Lymond as he tried to throw her grasp off of him.

 

“What’s happened?” she asked.

 

It was then that Helena was shocked to see her brother threatening to tear up. In all her life she had never seen him cry—not even when the news of their father’s death in Blackwater Bay met him upon his return with Stafford Lannister to Boarshead Hall, had he cried. But now it seemed as if he were about to let loose any pent up streams at any second.

 

Lymond’s explanation was simple, “Stafford—Lord Stafford is dead,” as he tried to swallow back his emotions and gain control of himself.

 

The man had been nothing to Helena. To her he was just the man who had taken Lymond away long ago when he was of age to squire, and had forced her into marriage with Sandor. That was not the case with Lymond and that angered her. He was ready to cry over the death of the knightly lord he’d squired for, but their own father not a tear had even threatened to be had?! She wanted to ask him how he could cry over such a man who forced many child nobles into marriages they neither wanted nor cared for, but she could only ask the first word.

 

“How?”

 

Lymond gained more control over himself and after seeing that he had drawn the attention of nearly every servant and guard in or near the courtyard, he took Helena by the hand and dragged her like he had done long ago when they were young children eagerly running about this courtyard, but now his crossing of it was agitated and frantic—as though he were searching not for some place for them to hide to escape the Maester, but instead to speak without being heard. They eventually compromised, after entering the keep, on his solar.

 

Pouring a glass of wine for himself with trembling hands he at long last spoke as she took a seat. “I haven’t said a word for I thought the matter would have been settled before now, but there’s been reports of a smallfolk uprising along the Northwestern coast.”

 

She was shocked by his answer, echoing it, “A smallfolk uprising?”

 

“Aye. Lord Stafford encountered them and… they… killed him.”

 

There was something about his explanation which did not sit well with Helena, but she could not quite put her finger on it, so she started with the obvious.

 

She asked, “Did he not ride with any guards?”

 

After hastily finishing his first glass, Lymond poured another and said, “They overpowered them—the Rock says that they’re armed and should be met with to deal with them swiftly.”

 

“And you’re just going to ride out there with a few guards, like he had, and deal with them on your own?” she asked

 

“They’ve killed Stafford—the Lord Protector of the Rock! By the Seven they must meet the Stranger!” growled Lymond fiercely as he slammed the bottle of half-finished wine down onto his desk.

 

She reminded him, “I did not say that they did not deserve such a judgment. But how is it helpful to your wife and children if you ride off and get yourself killed like him?”

 

Lymond had no answer instead he glared at the wine bottle as though it were the source of all his troubles.

 

“Postpone departing until you can organize some sort of resistance with the other lords and landed knights,” she suggested.

 

Quietly, after a long pause he admitted, for the first time in their life, “You’re right.” He then sighed and said, “I should have named Sandor for Stafford…”

 

Helena thought it an odd segue, but she figured it was his way of dealing with the death of a man who obviously meant more to him than their father, and so she asked, “Why didn’t you?”

 

Lymond responded, “Calena. I thought to let her name the boy as a way to replace the bastard. Our family has no tradition of naming to carry on, I figured why not give my lady wife more comfort in our life together.”

 

Helena smiled at Lymond then, him seeming more like her bossy but caring older brother more in that moment than in any other.

 

Lymond swore then, “If this child be a boy, I will name him Stafford.”

 

Helena nodded her head and then rose, deciding to take her leave to let Lymond have some time alone. She would press the subject of Conhur’s treatment upon him later. For the present she only offered Lymond to make his wish known to Calena. It was especially dark in the confinement chamber, when Helena made her visit to her goodsister.

 

“Why the sudden decision?” asked Calena worriedly.

 

Recalling the scolding she’d received from the mid-wife on making sure Lady Vikary wasn’t told anything too upsetting, Helena spoke softly as she said, “Lord Stafford has died, and Lymond simply wants to honor him.”

 

“If only I weren’t in confinement. Poor Lymond…” was Calena’s immediate response.

 

Ravens flew between Boarshead Hall and other keeps across the Westerlands, and Calena’s time drew ever closer. The babe had not yet arrived when the news of the death of Lord Tyrion—who had gone to negotiate with the rebel factions, only to be torn from his horse and “brutally slaughtered by the filthy mass of murderers and rebel scum”—as Lord Clifton, acting Lord of the Rock for his daughter Myrcella, put it in his letter to every noble house of the Westerlands.

 

Lymond’s resolve to meet the hoard of growing rebels only increased, and he left with Lord Lefford’s collected company before the birth of the son he had named. Helena’s nerves were set on edge as she waved a cloth for farewell from the gate as he rode off towards Lannisport and the Rock. She felt safer knowing Lymond wasn’t riding off alone, but at the same time she worried for what might happen to Lymond with such an armed and deadly group of rebels... and Seven help them if the rebels did kill them and come to Boarshead Hall.


	59. Oberyn IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this turned out to be a longer chapter than I had originally thought, but since it covers essentially three years of action, it would make sense that it is that way. Honestly I think there might be something for everyone in this chapter--and we get an update on House Tyrell inadvertently.

**OBERYN**  
  
 _I grow tired of lying low and waiting. The spider knows where the viper has his nest, so why shouldn’t I leave the nest to seek out the spider?_  
  
As he waited outside of Elia’s bed chamber in her small solar waiting for her to finish her vespers with a Septa, he dwelt on this thought more as he had for some time since Elia’s fall and recovery. He closed his eyes and he was easily transported back to that day when Nym had burst into the small council meeting with her news.  
  
 _“Your grace, my aunt—the Princess Elia… she’s… fallen from her window… I was sent to fetch Maester Gorman.”_  
  
 _He could still see in his mind’s eye his immediate rise from the weirwood Small Council table and his trek to the courtyard below her window. In what had felt like an instant he was coming out into the courtyard to find Obi kneeling over Elia’s seemingly limp and lifeless form, likely staring at her in shock. Oberyn had at that moment run to her side and nearly shoved his own son out of his way so as to better see his sister and her wounds. He recalled cradling her head, which had a bloody brush burn from impact on the gravel across the forehead, in his lap and began to urge her to respond to him, to check that she was breathing. Her breaths were shallow, but there nonetheless. And at his urging he saw her flitter her eyes for him. For an instant that seemed to last many sunlit days their eyes connected and Oberyn was assured that his sister was alive and that she knew who had done this to her. He assured himself then that he could strike out against the person and poison them with a poison so terrible that death would be a mercy._  
  
 _“Ffffffatttthhher?” she struggled to say as her eyes locked on his._  
  
 _Oberyn had been overjoyed and not ashamed of any tears spilling from his eyes at all as he called out, “Elia!”_  
  
 _“Vvvvvvvvvvvvi” she started to say, but then as one of his tears hit her face her mouth stopped working. Then her beautiful eyes closed and the moment was finished. He called out her name a few times, fearing she had died there in his arms—but she yet breathed. Gorman then assured him of that in what felt like a few moments later, but might have been several minutes for all he knew. The roseborn master had arrived sometime when Oberyn had been concerned with Elia’s wellbeing._  
  
 _Gorman eventually managed to convince Oberyn to pick up and carry Elia back to the Grand Maester’s chambers so he could examine and tend to her._  
  
 _Oberyn had at first spat at the suggestion, “I’m not letting you sink your thorns into her!”_  
  
 _Gorman had met his glare with one of his own and calmly stated, “She’ll die out here unless I can treat her. Do you want her death on your hands just because of a silly house rivalry?!”_  
  
 _Oberyn had been shocked into silence at that moment, and it took Nym’s intervention for Oberyn to begin moving into action._  
  
 _His beautiful daughter had pleaded with him, “Please papa! Don’t let Aunt Elia die…”_  
  
 _And he hadn’t. In that moment, staring all the while at the thorny Grand Maester, he had cautiously but swiftly gathered his dear sweet sister into his arms and carried her to the Grand Maester’s chambers. He said not another word to the man while he camped himself by his sister’s side all through her examination. Her legs were twisted—likely she’d never walk again—but besides that and the wound on her forehead, she only had a few bruises having not fallen from too high a height to have killed her. All they could do was wait until she awoke. Oberyn wanted to strike out against her would-be assassin—but all the while he did not trust the former Tyrell with Elia’s life, nor anyone else for that matter, so he would remain by her side. He slept by her side, and ate by her side. On the third day of his vigil waiting for her to wake once again, Ellaria had come to him to beg he speak to his children—all of whom were troubled, but most especially his son Obi._  
  
 _“I can’t leave her!” he had protested stubbornly._  
  
 _Ellaria had retorted with, “I will stay with her with whatever guards you trust to appoint. Right now your children and your niece need you more than your sister does!”_  
  
 _He had at first been angry with Ellaria, but facing his daughters’ sobbing faces his anger had cooled like a cloud might cool a heated afternoon, and like any viper he tended to his nest of little snakes. Rhaenys, his niece had been taken in by her cousins and guarded jealously by Obara—who had her spear out and ready to meet any attempt to kill the last dragon. Rhaenys was confused and scared—wondering where her mother had gone, with Tyene gently assuring her cousin through her tears and distracting her with a game of Poison the Cup. Sarella had Mya Stone to distract herself, with the eldest head of the “Golden Stags” eagerly matching archery contests with his Summer Islands snake._  
  
 _Obi stood apart from the rest of the snakes. His violet-haired son had turned into a statue for all the movement he had. After calming his daughters, he approached his stone silent son and took his attention. The boy had bloodshot eyes and salt-stained cheeks and even at Oberyn’s prompting his son would not say anything—so careful and guarded was his features, that Oberyn almost felt this little snake was more a stranger than his own kin._  
  
 _If the boy did not want to talk, they did not have to speak at all—and so Oberyn sat in silence with his foreign born son. If this was what his son wanted, then he would give it to him. And so they sat quietly in a corner by a small window looking out onto the same courtyard that Elia had fallen in. It wasn’t until Obi’s friend, the now maturely grown Lysenia appeared that any reaction surface from his son._  
  
 _“Milord, I am so sorry to hear of what happened to the Princess,” apologized Lysenia as she approached their silent space._  
  
 _Oberyn forced himself to reply with a “Thank you,” that nearly came out sounding like a hiss._  
  
 _Lysenia then continued, “Obi and myself had been not too far away when we heard her scream and fall.”_  
  
 _“Did you get a good look at who pushed her?” he asked with new interest in this Essosi girl his son had insisted he find a place for in the Red Keep as an assistant handmaiden._  
  
 _“I’m afraid not, milord,” answered Lysenia as she took the hand that Obi had reached out to her mutely. He saw their grasp tighten in that moment and Oberyn took note that seeing his friend was likely more beneficial for his son, than his presence had been. Or perhaps she was more than a friend? He had had his first woman, well a girl truly, at an age not too much older than Obi’s was now._  
  
 _He never found who had pushed Elia. No one had seen anything, not even any of the maids or servants, and no one had a clue as to who had done the deed. He had returned to Elia’s side feeling useless and powerless, unable to take vengeance like he should, and only able to wait to see if she remembered anything upon waking up._  
  
 _One evening he could no longer take it and so he yelled at her to “Wake up!” Over and over again he yelled it until Grand Maester Gorman came stumbling to his side._  
  
 _“Calm down my prince!” urged Grand Maester Gorman, placing a hand on Oberyn’s shoulder._  
  
 _“How can you tell me to calm down when I can do nothing?!” hissed Oberyn as he rolled off the Grand Maester’s hand from his shoulder._  
  
 _“Would your sister wish you to be so upset that you lost your mind to a madness fit to compare to the late king’s?” countered the thorny Grand Maester firmly._  
  
 _“M—madness?!” spat Oberyn with shock._  
  
 _Gorman continued, “Aye. I’ve seen more than a few cases in my time, and you, my prince are bordering the condition quite precariously. For your sister’s sake, if not your own, I urge you to take care of yourself! How can you be of use when she has need of you, if you destroy yourself now?”_  
  
 _Oberyn was surprised in his shock to find himself agreeing with Gorman, further more to admit it out loud by saying, “You’re right...”_  
  
 _“Take to your own chambers this night, my Prince,” urged the Grand Maester, and Oberyn numbly complied, for the first time appreciative of the rosey Grand Maester._  
  
He was brought back from his memory by the sound of the door leading to the inner chamber opening. His attention turned to see a fair skinned Septa in white robes and a rainbow belt exiting the chambers. Their eyes locked for but an instant, but in that time he recognized the Septa as a woman he already knew quite well. When he had known her as a scrubby faced and blond haired girl yet to have finished taking her vows he had not been much older than a greenboy in body at nine and ten if not in spirit or experience. She had been but a bud nearing its first blooming, and he an eager bee awaiting to nestle himself between her soft petals and lick up her sweet nectar. Now she stood before him as a beautiful white lily having opened and blossomed fully with a maturity he had not known on her. No longer was she the humiliated newly sworn Septa who had cried as she had given him Tyene to have and to hold by her First Septa’s orders. Septa Susyna was a woman he would like to acquaint himself with once again, if only to compare her to the girl he had known her as before. And Ellaria swelling with their third child, lately had a craving for light-skinned partners to join their bed…  
  
Before he could speak, Septa Susyna had broken her eye contact with him and departed without a word being said.  
  
“Oberyn,” called Elia from within her bed chamber, and he was up in an instant and entering to be by his sister’s side. Seeing his sister sitting up in her bed, her chamber lit perfectly by the moonlight, he recalled first seeing her awake after the weeks she had spent in silent slumber. She had looked weak and frail—worse than she had after Aegon’s birth so said a few of her handmaidens—but she was alive. It had taken her some time to grow used to not being able to walk anymore and accept that her legs were now lifeless appendages that weighed her down more than supported her. She had been despondent for some time, only pretending to be cheerful when around tear-strewn Rhaenys or his daughters.   
  
_Elia did not recall anything of her fall, nor her calling him father, or what she had meant by saying “Vi”. And so he would be left to protect his nest with his spies. For some time thereafter he had poured himself into all the reports from Essos. For a short while, Ellaria had withheld herself from his bed, saying, “Your thoughts are somewhere in Essos. When they have returned to your head, then I shall return to your bed.”  
  
How could he not think of Essos? That damned eunuch had gone out of his way to harm Elia—attempting to kill her twice now. He would ensure the damned spider eunuch would not succeed on his third attempt, even if it killed him._  
  
 _It was Grand Maester Gorman who urged him out of this stupor by suggesting that he take Elia out of the Red Keep to see him compete in the tournament the King was holding in honor of the birth of Princess Lyarra._  
  
 _“Your sister grows weary of staying in only one place—let her see more than these walls and gardens and she will likely begin to be well again.”_  
  
 _Oberyn countered, “But I am not to compete in the King’s Tournament.”_  
  
 _Gorman, the skinny rose retorted with, “You should. The Princess speaks of little with much excitement except the prospect of seeing you compete once more in this upcoming tournament.”_  
  
 _And Oberyn had needed little prompting than that to enroll, and find a wheelhouse and litter for his sister’s transport._  
  
 _The tournament had been held in fields just north of the city, and Elia had seemed to regain some of that lost sparkle to her eyes. He defeated every challenger he faced, save for Ser Ulwyk Uller—Ellaria’s blood uncle through her father, and one of the Kingsguard. One challenger in particular had been Willas Tyrell, the Young Rose of Highgarden, who was only but a few moons a man grown. The poor boy had a good sword arm, Oberyn admitted, but he was quite poor with a lance, as Oberyn had unseated him quite easily—though that had been to his misfortune, as the boy’s foot had caught in his stirrup and instead of falling clean off his well-bred mount, the young heir to House Tyrell and been dragged about by his scared and confused mount—causing a panic to sweep through the assembled crowd. Oberyn had managed to jump off his mount and approach and calm the young wild horse. After securing the horse attendants and servants from House Tyrell swooped upon the son and heir to the Warden of the South, and Gorman was called to look upon his kin, at the behest of a very upset older woman Oberyn recognized as the so-called “Queen of Thorns”, Willas’ grandmother._  
  
 _The old woman heckled as she hovered over Gorman and the boy, “Don’t just stand there like a blubbering fool, Gorman! Tend to him!”_  
  
 _“My lady, I believe you are distracting the Grand Maester from his work,” interjected Oberyn politely but rather pointedly._  
  
 _The Queen of Thorns glared at him and demanded, “You’ve done enough damage for one afternoon Prince Oberyn. Slither back to your little viper pit and leave me to tend to my rose garden!”_  
  
 _Out of concern for not making too large a scene and further distracting Grand Maester Gorman, Oberyn departed, though he wished he truly were capable of spitting poison like a viper in that moment._  
  
 _Elia was quite worried for the poor boy and was even more distressed when she found out that he had been crippled by the affair, needing a cane or a crutch of some sort for the rest of his life._  
  
 _“If I hadn’t pressed you so much to compete,” she bemoaned as he accompanied her back in the wheelhouse that had brought her to the fields._  
  
 _He assured her, “It was a freak accident that could have happened to anyone,” but he could tell that neither she nor he felt that to be the truth despite saying those words._  
  
 _Oberyn had felt guilty himself. Seeing how Elia was limited made him consider how the young heir to Highgarden now would fare—but the Tyrells had departed from the city as quickly as they had arrived, leaving Oberyn the task of sending a letter as a means of giving his regards. Doran had managed to get his hands on some sort of wheeled chair design fom Essos that Elia had benefited from greatly. Mayhaps such a gift would make amends and ease his distressed conscience?_  
  
 _To the Young Rose of Highgarden, heir to Highgarden_  
  
 _My deepest regrets and apologies cannot be expressed in mere words alone. For one who has not been a man for many years, you handled yourself quite expertly on your mount and were truly quite graceful with a sword in your hand. To think then that I am the cause of your not being able to handle either as proficiently as you should disturbs my piece of mind greatly. I wish I could make amends in some manner. If I could give you my own leg in payment of the one I took from you, I would do so without regret. Alas the Maesters have yet to develop sufficient abilities for me to bestow such gifts. My own sister has lost the ability to walk completely due to the vile attempts made by assassins. For her the inability to do what she was used to, has brought great sorrow to her soul. My brother has eased her cares a bit with a wheeled chair that my Essosi goodsister had heard tale of. It pains me greatly to be the cause of such despair in another. Tell me what I may do for you, young Lord Tyrell, and if it be in my power to make such a thing possible, I will endeavor to make it so._  
  
 _With great sorrow,  
  
Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell_  
  
 _The prose was slightly purple, but it expressed Oberyn’s true thoughts and feelings on the matter nonetheless. He did not expect to receive a response from young Tyrell as soon as he had three days later, and his thoughts were confirmed as such when he read the letter—that it had been sent before his letter had arrived._  
  
 _To the most esteemed Prince Oberyn Martell, Lord of Intelligence_  
  
 _I feel I must apologize for my grandmother’s harsh words said with little thought on her part when we were last in the capital. My grandmother, the Dowager Lady Olenna Tyrell, is used to the less than quick wits of our family, and thus I fear that unintentionally she brought offense in her desperate concern for my health, where she had not intended such. I have been quite favored by her throughout my youth, and as such she put aside proper respect and decorum that a man in your position, one of the King’s Small Council, is owed. For my own part, I never considered that such an outcome would come from my challenging you to a tilt. Foolhardily I had thought that if I could claim to have broken more than a few lances with the great Red Viper of Dorne, that I might inspire my younger brother, Garlan, to take his training to be a knight more seriously than he has as late. I fear my foolishness may have scared him off the path of becoming a knight completely. Forgive a greenboy his foolishness spurred on by a concern for his younger brother. I have paid enough for as my grandmother is fond to say, dimwitted fools will pay for their thoughtless actions in one way or another._  
  
 _With much deference,_  
  
 _Willas Tyrell_  
  
 _Oberyn was at once relieved and surprised to find such a sweet smelling rose amongst the patch of thorns he typically associated with House Tyrell. But then Grand Maester Gorman had already shown that such was possible from that family. He sent his reply immediately saying that he had as soon forgot the Lady Olenna’s words as soon as they had been said. He understood what great and dire concern for one’s family, might make one do rashly all too well. Oberyn in turn received a quick reply for his first letter himself from the young Tyrell who was more than gracious about the entire affair, thanking him for his kindness, generosity, and lamenting that his only desire he could not fulfill as it was seemingly impossible to gift him the ability to ride his horses that he was quite fond of. Oberyn, between harshly interrogating young Morys Arryn on why there were eight swords joining Ser Jon Buckwell’s “Andal Crusade” as the dithering old fool was apt to call it, and taking solace with Ellaria, penned a flurry of letters to his goodsister, Mellario, to see if she had heard of any such saddles that might allow a lame man to ride._  
  
“You seem far away Oberyn,” said Elia, breaking him from his reverie once again.  
  
“From your side? Never!” protested Oberyn as he pulled a stool close to Elia’s bed.  
  
“I do believe if Ellaria heard that, that she would be jealous, japed Elia weakly.  
  
“She knew from the beginning, that you come first with me,” he answered seriously, taking her cold small hand in his—hoping to warm it with his touch.  
  
“I wish it could truly be like that again,” clucked Elia as she shook her head, and withdrew her hand from his.  
  
“Why isn’t it?”  
  
“Our children, Oberyn. Our children need to come first. We don’t have the luxury anymore of caring just for each other.”  
  
“Obara’s been to see you then?” he grunted, upset at his own daughter having gone around him.  
  
“Aye, she needed to speak to someone. In truth, she needed her father—”  
  
“I spoke with her,” interjected Oberyn, feeling his side was being underrepresented already in the telling Obara had likely told Elia.  
  
“Not Prince Oberyn—Lord of Intelligence, but you, the real Oberyn that I know and love.”  
  
Oberyn countered, “This is different. This is actual war.”  
  
Elia sighed and said, “And you have trained her yourself—what is she to do if she isn’t to use the skills which you taught her?”  
  
He retorted, “It’s Essos.”  
  
“It’s Varys,” corrected Elia, and Oberyn winced.  
  
“Everything comes back to that bloody eight-legged spider,” grumbled Oberyn.  
  
“I think I’ve come to expect that we’ll never truly be free of his web. It’s too delicately and ornately made. Cut one strand and there are three or four more to keep it in place,” stated Elia.  
  
Oberyn stared at his sister. How could she just accept such a possibility?  
  
He began, “Kill the spider and—”  
  
She interrupted him with, “And the web will remain—ready for a new spider to claim it for its own.”  
  
“I can’t protect her there,” admitted Oberyn.  
  
“You can’t protect them here. At least there she’s fighting,” countered Elia, placing her hand on his balled fist ever so tenderly.  
  
Oberyn thought for a moment. Gods she was right though he was loathe admitting it.  
  
He sighed “I’ll speak with Obara in the morning… I’ll have to find a knight willing to take a lady as a fighter.”  
  
Elia then mentioned, “Lord Tully had a suggestion.”  
  
“Lord Tully? Since when do you speak with Lord Tully?” asked Oberyn.  
  
Elia explained, “Lord Tully has grown interested in a possible marriage with Dorne—and he thought it best to consult with myself on the matter considering you have been so busy.”  
  
Oberyn was confused for a moment before the thought clicked in his head, and he spoke it aloud for confirmation, “The Old Trout seeks to marry his wastrel of a son to Arianne—doesn’t he?”  
  
Elia gave him a look which told him that she wasn’t amused by his terminology.  
  
“Lycus Langward is the boy’s constant companion, and we all know what a glorious future that lordling has writing little poems and spreading them about the court as if they should be admired by more than their intended receipiant—Langward is a proud strutting peacock, and he has taken on the Young Trout on as his apprentice,” scoffed Oberyn.  
  
“In truth, I believe young Edmure Tully to be a rather nice sort of boy,” defended Elia.  
  
“Aye, boy is the proper term for him. And you truly want a child of his blood sitting on the throne of Dorne?” rounded Oberyn.  
  
“Boys grow up, like Obi has,” sprang Elia suddenly, and Oberyn could instantly see the tactic laid bare before him.  
  
“No! Not him as well! You might have convinced me about Obara—at least she is a woman grown now, but Obi is still as much a greenboy as young Edmure Tully.”  
  
Elia retorted, “They are of age. And besides that he’s close enough to the age you won your first duel at.”  
  
“I was different,” dismissed Oberyn automatically.  
  
Elia smirked and then said, “Fine, then you can tell your son that to his face after you’ve allowed his sister to go, and see how he responds.” She paused before adding, “He knows Essosi culture far better than Obara does.”  
  
Oberyn glared at Elia, but then he reluctantly agreed, “Fine, he can go as well, but only as Obara’s squire.”  
  
Elia looked as though she wanted to argue that last point, but appeared resigned to having gotten the best deal out of him for his children’s sake.  
  
Oberyn would speak with his children about going to their Aunt Elia to convince her to argue their points for them—of that he would be sure.  
  
“The Septa…”  
  
Elia now averted his eyes.  
  
“You know she is Tyene’s mother, do you not?” asked Oberyn.  
  
At this Elia looked surprised but then as if she were comparing her Septa and her niece at once she seemed to see the truth she hadn’t before, and a look of shock appeared on her face.  
  
Elia then admitted, “She told me that she came to me as a fellow Dornish woman, to seek aid returning to Dorne.”  
  
“She’s left her Sept?” asked Oberyn, shocked at the audacity of such a move.  
  
Elia then “She no longer holds true to the Faith  
  
Oberyn smirked and said, “Courting a heretic now are you, sweet sister?”  
  
“Is a woman who believes so firmly in the Mother such a heretic to a woman of Dornish blood?” challenged Elia quite firmly.  
  
“I suppose not, in Dorne, but only in Dorne,” admitted Oberyn. He then sighed and warned, “You’re taking a great risk harboring her like this.”  
  
“What is there to risk in returning a woman to her homeland?” asked Elia knowingly.  
  
Oberyn sighed, smirked, and shook his head before saying, “I’ll speak with her.”  
  
“And only speak,” warned Elia.  
  
“I have already taken her maiden’s blood. There is nothing more that I can do that will ruin her any further,” scoffed Oberyn.  
  
“Help her,” urged Elia, and he nodded in response.  
  
“Did anyone else come to you so you could speak to me on their behalf?” he teasingly questioned.  
  
“No,” admitted Elia.  
  
Oberyn then nodded, moved onto the edge of her bed and pulled her close to him, and simply held her then, appreciating his sister for who she was and that she was still alive—badly disfigured but still alive. It was a custom between them now. In silence they stayed like that for some time before Oberyn tenderly kissed her cheek, rose, and returned to his own chambers. Not to much surprise he found Septa Susyna there waiting for him, already speaking with Ellaria.  
  
“There you are at last, lover,” said Ellaria affectionately, trying to rise with some difficulty from her seat to kiss him, but her swelling was so great that she could not do so by herself. She had only had a year’s break since Obella’s birth, and had not lost all the weight like she had after Lewyn’s. It had filled out Ellaria’s figure from hauntingly gaunt to deliciously round, but it made things such as rising more difficult when pregnant with yet another child so soon after the last. Gods help Ellaria if she ever had only a few moons between pregnancies.  
  
Oberyn approached her chair from behind and put a hand gently on Ellaria’s shoulder to tell her to stay put while he leaned in, and gave Ellaria the kiss they both desired.  
  
“I can see why he stays with you,” quipped Susyna when their kiss had apparently gone on long enough.  
  
“We know and appreciate each others’ tastes. That is all,” disclosed Ellaria with a purr of pleasure to her voice.  
  
“Is that all I am to you, lover? Someone to be pleased and nothing more?” he retorted, noting that no formal introductions had been done, figuring that Susyna had already told Ellaria the truth of whatever the matter was. Or at least as much of it as she dared at the moment, judging by how Susyna fiddled with her hands nervously.  
  
“You do have quite the appetite to be appeased,” teased Ellaria.  
  
“Indeed. So did this one at one time,” mentioned Oberyn, directly referring to Susyna and making the Septa’s pale cheeks blush.  
  
“Is that how Tyene came about then, in pursuit of your pleasure?” queried Ellaria.  
  
“Tyene is more than a mere accident!” protested Susyna the next moment. And Oberyn almost smirked, but he held control of himself for a little longer.  
  
“Aye she is. I take it then by your answer that she is why you’ve come here?” rebounded Oberyn, Ellaria knowing that the game was done, now that the Septa had let down her robes—so to speak.  
  
“I—I came to—oh, the Others take you, Oberyn Martell!”  
  
Oberyn continued putting pressure on Susyna, “I don’t know why you felt you had to go through Elia if you wanted to see your daughter before fleeing to Dorne, Susyna.”  
  
At this Septa Susyna was speechless for a moment before recovering herself and saying, “After I had abandoned her so recklessly to you, I thought…”  
  
He completed her thought for her. “That I’d be cruel and inhuman enough to refuse you—her own mother—the right to see her? What kind of monster do you take me to be?”  
  
“The Small Council changes men,” said Susyna solemnly.  
  
Ellaria gave a little laugh and agreed in that moment, “Aye that it does.”  
  
 _Have I changed all that much?_  
  
But he could not dwell on that thought for the moment, and so he put it aside.  
  
“You could have come to me directly during the day,” added Oberyn.  
  
Finally after a nearly painful silence, Susyna divulged “I would have… if it were not for the fact that I don’t just want to see her…”  
  
“What?!” was his immediate reaction, shared with him by Ellaria.  
  
“It’s not safe here in King’s Landing… assassins tried to kill your sister—they might try to harm you or your daughters next. With me, in Dorne, Tyene could be safe. As a traveling Septa’s novice, she would be anonymous—no one would be able to find her. I would be able to know her and fulfill the Great Mother Creator’s command.”  
  
“Tyene is a Sand Snake, would you be prepared to take not just her but all her sisters and brothers?” challenged Ellaria, unconsciously holding the swell to her body as she did.  
  
“Fulfill the Great Mother Creator’s command?” asked Oberyn, caught on her last words.  
  
Septa Susyna at that moment looked as though she were a child caught saying something she had not wanted to yet reveal, but she took a deep breath, collected herself and spoke surprisingly passionately for the first time since her defense of Tyene earlier in the conversation.   
  
"I came to King’s Landing with a sister of my Sept to escourt a wayward sister who had been called by the High Septon Bones to answer for charges of heresy for presuming to interpret the Mother’s Book in the Seven Pointed Star, to a smallfolk mother who asked about whether a woman was damned if she found she could only care for the children of her body, and not of the world as much. I bore witness to my sister’s shaming by the High Septon, who pronounced she be purged of her impudent tongue by walking around with a scold’s cage on her head.”  
  
“A scold’s cage?” asked Ellaria, confused by the contraption.  
  
Susyna continued, “It’s a cage which attaches to the head and locks in place a piece which inserts a bit which has nails sticking out of it into a woman’s mouth. One of these northerners came up with the contraption to punish his wife for scolding him so much. And the bloody northerners actually built the damned contraption! Said he was inspired by the Bloody Wolf’s value of life. He showed the contraption to his Septon and asked if it was right for a Husband to punish his wife in such a manner. And the damned Septon took the contraption to High Septon Bones who said the Seven had given him an immediate revelation that such a device was sanctified by the Mother herself.  
  
I… I couldn’t believe it. I just could not believe that the Mother would allow such harm be done to her children. I prayed and prayed for guidance… and then it happened. The Great Mother Creator spoke to me, saying that that was not her will, that the High Septon confused his own will with that of the One-who-are-Seven and would be punished for doing so in due time. She charged me to… spread her message that all it takes is to have the right heart—the right heart to be Faithful. She told me that our hearts shall lead us right and that we must trust in them. We also must love one another like the brothers and sisters we actually are in her eyes, but also love our children—all of us.  
  
She commanded me to be a good mother to her people, but told me that before I could be one, as any Septa should be, that I must first be a good mother to the daughter I already have. I am a woman, I am a Septa, but I am also a mother. I have ignored that part of myself for far too long, and I cannot help but look upon the soul of my child that the creator has left under my charge as a talent committed to me under a trust. She is a gift from the Great Mother Creator to me. I am not a man nor am I a Septon, yet as a mother and a Septa my heart tells me I ought to do more than I have yet done. I have resolved to begin the Great Mother’s work with my own child, and as such, I wish to have my daughter, so that I may a better mother to our brothers and sisters."  
  
“And how much of this divine revelation is your own guilt at having left Tyene to my care, while you pursued your vows?” Oberyn challenged her.  
  
“I will not deny that there has hardly been a night since I left Tyene with you that I have not regretted what I’ve done. But this is wholly separate from that!” insisted Susyna, as though she were half trying to convince herself of such a fact.  
  
“You are too late to be Tyene’s mother. She will soon have her first flowering,” interjected Ellaria defensively.  
  
Septa Susyna spoke earnestly, “A mother is never too late to be a mother—for no matter how she doubts and tries to push aside her feelings, she will always be a mother.”  
  
Oberyn challenged Susyna, “It would pain my girls to be separated from one another—and how can you guarantee she will be safe, seeing as you will be traveling with what weapons or companions for protection? How would you feed yourself—let alone another mouth? Where would you stay when the heat and the cold of the desert nearly kill you? And say assassins did go to the trouble of tracking you down—how could you assure her safety?”  
  
“The Great Mother Creator would provide—”  
  
Oberyn nearly shouted, “I care not if the Great Mother Creator is Mother Rhoyne herself, you will not take _my_ daughter from me!”  
  
“She is just as much my daughter!” retorted Susyna.  
  
“Not anymore, and leaving with you would only be dangerous for her, try and deny that!” spat Oberyn. Susyna looked conflicted, as though she found she could not draw upon anything to challenge Oberyn.  
  
Ellaria then spoke up with a suggestion of her own, “Perhaps there is a way to satisfy both your desires without bringing Tyene into this.”  
  
“She is my only child to whom I am a mother,” replied Susyna with obvious distress and conflict eating away inside her.  
  
Ellaria added, “Exactly what I aim to correct! Your Great Mother Creator requires you to be a mother to your child? Why not be a mother to another child all your own, and leave Tyene to the Sand Snakes.”  
  
At this suggestion even Oberyn was taken aback, but in the aftermath of the shock he couldn’t help but see Ellaria’s wisdom.  
  
“I would not dishonor myself—” started Susyna. But Oberyn ignored Susyna’s protest, locking his eyes with Ellaria, asking her if she really wanted this. Ellaria nodded slowly with a cautious smirk attempting to assert itself on her face.  
  
“But you already have, with me,” prompted Oberyn as he turned to face Susyna.  
  
“You can’t possibly be suggesting—I can't abandon Tyene again!”  
  
“You have already washed your hands of Tyene—remember? This way you will have a child of your own to be a mother to, and Tyene will remain safe and happy,” repeated Oberyn, trying to make himself forget that the child would also be yet another Sand Snake—but one that he would likely never see and could never think of as a Sand Snake.  
  
 _Think of the Sand Snakes you have. Mayhaps Susyna will die in childbirth wandering the desert. Gods help me, what an awful thing to consider! But think of Tyene…_  
  
“And I will be there as well…” stated Ellaria, who looked up to Oberyn to assist her to rise, and he held out his arm for her to do so.  
  
Septa Susyna’s pale cheeks then flushed red at the suggestion.  
  
Ellaria however did not finish with that, instead reaching out and grasping Susyna’s hand and saying, “If you are to be a better mother, sister, then you should know all that your Sept kept from you.”  
  
And that night, and for seven nights thereafter for good measure at Susyna’s insistence, the Septa’s robes came off.


	60. Edmure III

**EDMURE**

 

He never realized how active a storage hold was used until he stayed in one for nearly three days on end. Those who were not comfortable using the slop bucket in public sometimes took the bucket into here—this was how Marq, Ronald, and Hugo had managed to allow Edmure the chance to relieve himself. Then there were the deckhands who during their free time spent tossing dice and other forms of gambling down here. It was where some people went to talk when they needed somewhere private they could speak—for instance, Edmure heard a brother and a sister came down here to argue about his diligence practicing with his spear. He was left curious how a woman had come aboard, but there would be time to have that question answered later on.

 

They were three days off of Massey’s Hook when Edmure had finally emerged from his hiding spot—not able to take another minute couped up in a barrel. His muscles were sore from remaining huddled in such cramped conditions, and for the first several minutes he had simply laid numbly across the planks of the hold his barrel had been placed in. For the luck of the Seven he thanked the gods he hadn’t been trapped in the barrel any longer by having been buried beneath a mound of other barrels.

 

“Enjoy your rest?” prodded Marq with a smirk.

 

“Oh sod off!” dismissed Edmure, and Ronald and Hugo sniggered in the inky dark background of the cargo hold.

 

“Quiet you two! Do you want to attract unwanted notice?” hissed Marq in an odd turn of seriousness quite alien to his usual nature.

 

“I thought the whole point of his coming out of the barrel was for him to come clean?” countered Hugo.

 

“To my Uncle first! I need to see him before anyone else!” corrected Edmure, feeling a bit more recovered to prop himself up slightly on his wobbly arms.

 

“Too late for that,” interjected another voice, and out of the shadows of the cargo hold appeared Perwyn. In the year since he had seen Perwyn, the Frey had grown a bushy brown beard which complemented the wavy curls of his hair and dark brown eyes rather well. He looked not only looked like a man grown of twenty namedays, but he looked every bit the knight he was. Edmure at first smiled to see him, but the frown that was framed by Perwyn’s acquired beard did not relent.

 

“Ser Perwyn, we—” began Ronald automatically. Whenever Asha hadn’t been around, Ronald had tried to explain things as best he could.

 

“Didn’t pay enough attention to the tracking lessons Ser Brynden taught you? That was already apparent. Sneaking young Lord Edmure aboard, without his father’s permission, on a ship headed for the Stepstones under already limited rations. I think I have a handle of the situation well enough,” corrected Perwyn.

 

“I couldn’t stay behind in the capital!” insisted Edmure.

 

“One of the first lessons of being a squire is learning to take orders and following them to their completion—even if you disagree with them. I thought even you had learned that! This isn’t Riverrun, Edmure. Lymond and Liam aren’t setting up buckets for you to sneak about and discover all over the place,” admonished Perwyn rather sternly, and with a touch of a glare he’d seen his uncle give on more than one occasion.

 

“Followed by the lesson that some orders should not be followed,” rounded Marq smartly.

 

Before Perwyn could respond to that, Edmure interjected “Consider me lost then, it doesn’t change that I have to speak with my uncle either way.” He tried to sound as flippant as he possibly could convey, if only to hide the fact he rather hated the whole idea of being considered “lost” at anything.

 

Perwyn looked startled by such a suggestion before closing his eyes and sighing. He then opened them once more, glared at Edmure and said as roughly as he could, “Stay here.” He then turned to Marq, Ronald, and Hugo and added, “all of you,” before departing.

 

By now Edmure felt well enough to sit up and lean against a few barrels.

 

Hugo was the first to break the silence that had settled in after Perwyn’s departure, “W—what do you think Ser Brynden will do with us?”

 

Ronald scoffed, “You’re only wondering that now?!”

 

Edmure didn’t know what to say. When he had first considered the plan, he had thought to take the blame of sneaking aboard the ship himself—leaving Marq, Ronald, and Hugo out of whatever tale he would tell his uncle. Now? Now he didn’t have that luxury. There was no point in denying the truth—Perwyn told nothing but that to his uncle. And where could Marq, Ronald, and Hugo hide or flee to on a ship in the middle of the Narrow Sea?

 

It wasn’t long before Uncle Brynden had arrived—by which time Edmure found it much less painful to stand. There would be no possibility of convincing his Uncle of anything if he wasn’t in control of his body.

 

His Uncle’s lined face and rapidly greying red hair made him seem as if he were a well carved stone statue, the association made even plainer by his grim scowl which tightened upon seeing Edmure stand. He simply stared at Edmure for a minute as if he were taking in all of him before speaking.

 

“Seven hells, what were you thinking?”

 

Edmure had prepared for that reaction, “That I owe a duty to my uncle as one of his squires.”

 

At this his Uncle gave a curt nod before responding, “And what of your duty to your father?”

 

Edmure knew better than to answer that question. He too much wanted to protest that he wasn’t a mewing child that didn’t need his father’s permission—but that would only prove what he said was indeed so. Better to keep his tongue silent than have his own words work against him.

 

His Uncle continued, though from what Edmure saw he was going through the motions more than arguing with any genuine passion at the moment, “You are your father’s only son and the future lord of Riverrun—”

 

“And as a future lord—need not I know how to lead men into battle?” pounced Edmure.

 

“And if you should fall?” this question however still packed the punch Edmure knew his Uncle could provide when he wanted.

 

“Men and heirs die all the time for different reasons. I could have died when I was but ten of that chill and Riverrun would have been yours and Tristifer’s after you. Before the last rebellion, a lord and his heir were murdered unjustly by their king. Life is too short and easily taken to spend it walled up behind castle walls worried about whether you might or might not die if you venture out of them.”

 

His Uncle smirked and snorted despite himself, joined in his amusement by Marq, Ronald, and Hugo who seemed ready to call it a victory. Perwyn tied to suppress the amusement hidden behind his beard by taking his gloved hand and putting up by his chin—allowing his fingers to obscure his mouth. It was the subtle rise in Perwyn’s cheeks which gave him away. Uncle Brynden at realizing that Edmure’s friends were laughing returned his face to its prior grim visage and glared at his other three squires.

 

“And what about you three? What do you have to say for yourselves?” rounded his Uncle harshly.

 

“We were… um… helping our friend and future lord,” answered Hugo while Marq and Ronald fell silent for a moment.

 

“All the while not considering what effects your actions might have on rations, I bet.”

 

“I had rations of my own in the barrel,” Edmure chimed in at this point.

 

“Well at least you didn’t starve yourself,” grumbled his Uncle, who then cleared his throat and added, “Doesn’t change how you’ll affect the rest of the damn trip.”

 

“We put his armor and some more rations for him in another barrel,” countered Marq.

 

“So we’re down two barrels of rations, not just one?”

 

Ronald interjected, “We planned ahead as best we could.”

 

“This is what comes of keeping secrets from your sworn lords—you ruin many a plan!” snapped Brynden.

 

“It’s my fault Uncle, they only helped me do what I wanted done,” said Edmure, hoping to take some of his Uncle’s ire off his three friends.

 

It was only a moment later did Edmure realize that that might have been a mistake, as his Uncle turned to him and retorted, “And what would you do if I decided to leave you on Tarth while we finish our mission in the Stepstones?”

 

He had expected his Uncle to possibly question what he might tell his father—but finding an excuse to leave him behind, stranding him? That was unthinkable—even of the Blackfish! It had to be a test of some sort, but what was the answer to choose? Well, he had asked about his possibility of death before…

 

“I would seek out either the lord of Tarth or his castellan and beg use of a ship to follow after—putting myself in further danger, but no more than you would should pirates attack this vessel. But more than that, I hate to think what my father would say. Leaving a Tully to fend for himself, t’would be unpardonable.”

 

Once again a snort and a smirk adorned his Uncle’s face. “So you’ve acquired some wit then, good. You’ll need it. Beyond the problem with rations, we haven’t a hammock for you, so you’ll have to speak with the Captain if there’s any extra to be had.” As his Uncle spoke, Edmure could tell by the look on his face that he doubted what he said was possible. His Uncle wasn’t finished though, adding with a further smirk, “For the rations, I think I can be of some help by talking to the steward. If say Marq, Ronald, and Hugo were to go on half rations each that might cover you enough to give you half rations.”

 

Edmure nodded, it was likely only the first of several little “punishments” he’d likely see from his Uncle before the voyage was over. Of his three friends, Edmure saw Ronald’s eyes go wide with the thought of being put on half rations, but it was Marq who responded, “As you wish, Ser.”

 

When brought before the captain, things did not go as smoothly. Edmure had to duck when a knife was rashly thrown at him.

 

“Stowaway!” spat the lowborn man who sounded as though he came from Flea Bottom.

 

Edmure protested as he stood cautiously—ready to duck or dodge should another knife come his way—“Have a care, Captain! I am the son and heir ot the hand of the King!”

 

“I care not if you’re the King Beyond the Sea!” growled the captain repeating the old smallfolk term that the maesters had said likely referred to the King of the Andalos, back during the days when the Andals had been split between Essos and Westeros. “Stowaways bring naught but bad luck! I should throw you overboard—it might not be too late to change the luck you’ve brought,” contemplated the Captain as he took out another knife and lazily examining it. Edmure knew well enough that not flinching now mattered, and so he stood up straight and met the Captain’s eyes when they flickered between his own and the knife.

 

Edmure spoke with as much strength as he could muster from his bones, asking “And how would I do that?”

 

“Do what?” questioned the captain, obviously pressing him fo further detail to have the mummer’s amusement of hearing Edmure ask such a question.

 

Edmure kept his eyes locked with the Captain’s as he hasked quite seriously, “How would I change… the luck that I’ve brought?”

 

The Captain gave him a wide and wicked smile, more than a few of his teeth were missing, and what few that did remain were discolored beyond all recognition—each looking either an inky periwinkle or black. He then took a stronger hold on his knife and he threw extremely close to Edmure, but obviously avoided hitting him—though that did not stop Edmure from feeling that air disturbed by the flying knife. This too was a test, Edmure sensed, and he saw the captain raise his eyebrows with a sudden newfound respect all the while Edmure’s mind freaked out over how close the knife had gotten to slicing off a piece of his left ear. He was so upset by the knife incident—though he took pains not to show it as much as he could—the Captain replied, “Why working for ye passage, o’course.”

 

In the end Edmure was forced to be of assistance to some deckhands for a few hours each afternoon. Typically this meant scrubbing the deck on his hands and knees with brush, a bucket and some sea water, cleaning the deck after his Uncle’s practice sessions with his squires. So not only was he sore and tired after his Uncle’s drills and organized spars—which were designed to get the warriors and squires used to fighting aboard a ship or some other uneven ground—but he added to it the back-tiring work of scrubbing decks. In exchange for a few hours each afternoon, he was given a hammock and the half rations his Uncle had bargained for out of the ship’s steward. Tired quite often, Edmure did not stay up late to jape and talk that often, his often aching body relishing most moments of sleep he could find between sunset and sunrise.

 

The hammock was moth-eaten in places with more than a few holes, rips and tears in it. Upon seeing it, Edmure had wondered briefly what Asha and his aunt Jeyne were doing. Aunt Jeyne’s needle or seven hells, even Asha’s large and impatient stitches would’ve been welcomed to patch the hammock. But, no matter, wishing for them wouldn’t make them appear, and so he consigned himself to sleeping in the worn old hammock. He managed to find a spot to string it above Marq, having to climb into his hammock first before Marq went to sleep, as he needed to step on Marq’s hammock in order to get into his, it was so high up. The holes and tears weren’t large enough for Edmure to fall through, only for odd body parts or patches of skin to stick through.

 

_Well, at least it’s a step up from the barrel._

 

One morning, his Uncle had decided to pair him off with one of the squires from the several other warriors under his command onboad ship. Most of the warriors under his Uncle’s command who were not of Riverrun were Crownlanders or southern Riverlanders who had arrived at the capital rather quickly, prepared to sail immediately. There was two exceptions of course, one of which was this particular squire whom he was paired to spar with. This squire Edmure recognized immediately as one of Prince Oberyn Martell’s many bastard children—or “Sandsnakes” as he once heard them referred as. He was named for his father, though his elder sister, for whom he was a squire to, referred to him quite often as simply “Obi”, and from what Edmure had seen of him in Maegor’s Holdfast’s training yard, Edmure knew he favored a spear in his hand much like his elder sister, though when he had a dagger in his hand he seemed more skilled and equally at ease. Obi Sand had long hair down to his shoulders, which he dyed violet and kept out of his face in a loose bun when fighting. He was of Edmure’s age—somewhere between a year to a few months shy of being a man grown—and was quite lean, tall, and lithe in build. He had the same eyes and was about as tall as his elder sister, Obara, with whom he usually sparred during these morning sessions before this morning.

 

The spar had been set as a way to challenge Edmure, who had begun to handle himself rather well against his fellow sword and shield wielding squires, even challenging Liam Mooton—the best sword fighter his Uncle had as a squire—to take him more seriously as an opponent. Edmure of course still didn’t beat Liam, but the fact that the red fish even needed to put more effort into beating him, made Edmure feel rather proud of himself. As he stared Obi down, Edmure wondered if he’d been a bit premature in celebrating his accomplishment.

 

The spar began with Obi spinning his spear several times, likely so as to distract Edmure from his true intentions. Edmure recalled his Uncle’s training about looking at a man’s feet to see where he wanted to go. Obi’s stance was wide and looked ready to pounce in an instant—so he charged Obi, swinging his blunted blade at the sandsnake’s legs, but he had jumped a moment before Edmure swung. Stopping himself, as he realized he had left his back open to his opponent, Edmure swung around raised his sword just in time to deflect the incoming jab from Obi’s spear. Using his shield at that moment, Edmure pushed against the surprised sandsnake, knocking him down from his unsteady stance onto the deck on his back. Edmure then swung his sword to rest just an inch from Obi’s neck, only to find the sandsnake had rolled out of the way and was rising back to his knees—but during his roll his grip on his spear had faltered and it had bounced and then rolled across the deck and right underneath his sister’s foot.

 

“Match!” called out Ser Perwyn, who was called upon as a neutral party in these spars to judge when they were over. Edmure was congratulated by Marq and the rest of his fellow squires almost immediately thereafter—though it felt like a hollow victory.

 

“The spar’s not over!” hissed Obi towards Perwyn.

 

“You lost your spear; it’s over,” grumbled Obara, as she picked up her brother’s spear.

 

“I would have gotten it back!” insisted Obi, apparently quite sore at losing.

 

“While your opponent would’ve stabbed his sword through your back,” added Obara.

 

“A Tully do something without honor?” scoffed Obi

 

Edmure felt at once complimented and angry upon hearing such a backhanded compliment. He was about to shout out his own confused but hotheaded response when Perwyn interjected himself.

 

Perwyn spoke politely, if directly, “If I may, Obara, your squire sounds like he would like a second attempt at proving his prowess, if I am not mistaken?”

 

“I’d like to finish my first!” corrected Obi.

 

“The first is over,” argued Obara.

 

“Only because you say so,” countered Obi, as he stood and met her eyes with a dark glare.

 

“Keep this up and I’ll let you and the boy Tully finish it this afternoon while you assist him with the deck!” warned Obara with her own venom.

 

To say that Edmure appreciated the assistance in scrubbing the deck that afternoon would’ve meant he enjoyed Obi’s company—which he was determined not to do so, not after the way he had spoken ill of his family. They each started as far from one another as they could manage, but as the sun grew low they found themselves with less and less deck space between one another, until at the end they were right next to each other.

 

“I would’ve had you first,” grunted Obi, giving an almost careless shove as he knocked against Edmure to reach his own water bucket.

 

Edmure responded, “I had you in the end.”

 

“I would’ve gotten my spear back,” countered Obi.

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

At this, Edmure had expected the boy to shout something back, or at least to glare at him, instead he was greated to an eerie silence.

 

At long last Obi broke the silence “I do better when striking from the shadows.”

 

Edmure asked, half curious, “Did your father teach you that?”

 

It at least sounded something like what the Red Viper of Dorne might say to Edmure’s ears.

 

Obi surprised him by answering, “No. He rarely speaks with me.”

 

“But he trained you himself with a spear, right?” questioned Edmure.

 

Obi continued, “Aye… but he’s never really cared for me.”

 

“All fathers care for their children,” countered Edmure, recalling his own father’s awkward hug that seemed many eons ago from when he’d been sick.

 

Obi snorted, “He cares for my sisters well enough. He allowed Obara to come to war without being a squire, but me? No. He sought after each of my sisters’ mothers for them immediately after he heard about them—even Obara’s who was an Oldtown whore. But me? The son of a Pentoshi whore? No. He heard I lived and did nothing, leaving me to find him.”

 

The tales of how the Red Viper of Dorne had tracked down each of his bastard children were spoken of in a whisper about the court. With a passing interest, Edmure had heard a few of them—he had simply assumed that that was how the Red Viper had collected all his children, but apparently this was not so.

 

“What about your mother? Surely she cares for you.”

 

“I don’t even think she’s alive. If he’d just come, he could have saved her! He could have changed things… instead, he took my brother’s mother as a paramour, and left mine to disappear in the slums of Pentos,” growled Obi, who then threw his brush into the bucket of water so violently, it splashed a great deal of dirtied sea water back onto the deck.

 

Edmure did not know what to say to this at first.

 

“You could prove him wrong… use the war as an opportunity to display your talents,” offered Edmure.

 

It seemed then that Obi realized with whom he had just spoken with and he suddenly cloaked his anger in a nearly unreadable face.

 

“Aye, that I could do,” was the sandsnake’s only reply. Obi avoided speaking with Edmure as much as he could after that.


	61. Asha III

**ASHA**  
  
They had marched a great distance from Riverrun, with Asha seeing mountain passes, towns, gorges, and villages she'd never yet seen—or at least hadn’t bothered to have noticed before. The Westerlands were a rugged place, and quite beautiful with what leaves there were all different colors and falling about them. To see a small hamlet nestled in a small valley as they climbed a hill at sunset—by the Drowned god, it was a sight unlike anything on the Iron Isles. There was just so much color! Riverrun had been full of color unlike anything Asha had seen as well—brilliant greens of the grasses and trees, the red mud of the Red Fork, the light yellow hue of the soil when turned for planting, and deep blues of the two rivers—but the reds, yellows, oranges and even the warm browns of the leaves on the trees and the bluish greys of the mountains of the Westerlands were more vibrant and bright than any she had yet seen. The dull greys, blacks, and dark greenish-browns of the Iron Isles were something entirely different. She wanted to say that she still preferred them to this colorful display about her–she was after all, Ironborn still—but the beauty of the greenlands could be appreciated and her still be an Ironborn all the same. At least that’s what she told herself.

  
One of the two things that Asha hated about marching was the mud--which was sometimes too mushy to ride a horse through without causing the beast to start sinking into the ground--even through the high mountain passes. And so she sometimes found herself having to walk her horse through the mud. It didn't help that she felt rather awkward about the animal as well. Though having been trained on a horse at Riverrun, she had never felt quite at ease on one. A horse--unlike one of her father's ships--had a mind of its own and her mount seemed as apprehensive of her as she was of him, often pulling back on the reigns when the sloppiest of mud puddles lay before them, and kicking up much mud and murky water to drench her in the stuff when she pulled him through. And being wet from the mud only made the cold winds all that worse to endure. If it didn't give a light snow, it rained, turning all the earth into one gigantic mud pit. Her boots were caked with the stuff. At first she'd naively thought it exhilarating to be marching through the muck and mire--but blisters on her feet and constantly soggy boots in addition to mud caked wheels on the wagons slowed their progress as the horses struggled to pull the carts through the muck to keep them from sinking into it. Often times Asha spent a good portion of the day pushing a cart from mud pit to mud pit. The worst though was the cold. Winter was truly now beginning to set in that it was so cold that at night the mud would freeze, which if the carts and wagons hadn’t been situated out of the mud, meant that an hour or so might be dedicated to chipping the wheels out of the frozen mud.  
  
By a moon's turn, Asha hated the mud and cold and praised each day that was dry and the warm sun baked the ground in its warm golden rays—as rare as that was.

 

"Are you cold?" inquired Ser Halmon when a particularly chilly trek came to an end in the windy higher elevations of the Western mountains.

 

Asha was freezing--but even though her teeth were chattering a tiny bit and her lips were just the slightest shade of blue, she would not admit it. She was Ironborn--and Ironborn she recalled her nuncle Aeron saying "could withstand the cold and wet, because they were cold and wet." So Asha made no confirmation of this as she jumped off her mount and fumbled tying up the reigns to her horse. She should have grabbed warmer clothes from Edmure... these were all made with summer in mind, and were much too thin to endure such chilling blasts from the whipping winter winds. After she had managed to tie her horse to a tree next to Ser Halmon's she was surprised to see Ser Halmon hefting his own trunk from one of the wagons--a task she was assigned to do before setting up his pavilion for them to sleep under.

 

"Ser, I was just about to fetch--" she began, but Ser Halmon put down his trunk and waved her to be silent.

 

"Willem," he began, calling her the name she had assumed with his guidance--claiming to be a cousin of Ser Halmon's from a lesser branch of his knightly House that was on poor terms with his own. He spoke to her in this way whenever he felt too many knights sworn to Lord Lefford were around. He then continued, "I know your father is a poor excuse for a Paege, but I would have thought your merchant mother would have had the decency to pay a tailor to sew you a cloak before you came to Riverrun. She makes a fortune brewing beer in Fairmarket, and what does she send her eldest son to squire in but rags that Riverrun found pathetic. Riverrun has given you clothes, but it is up to me to give you something else."

 

It was then Ser Halmon opened his trunk and after shifting a few things about pulled out from it a black cloak lined with black fur as dark as his hair--exactly like Ser Halmon's own cloak. Upon the back was sewn the banner of House Paege--two serpents, one red and the other white, intertwined. Ser Halmon looked at the cloak fondly, holding it as though a babe were swaddled within it, before carefully standing and holding out the cloak to her.  
  
"Take this," he said, holding out the cloak to be taken from his hands.

 

Asha was at war with herself. The part of her which was Ironborn to the core deplored being given the cloak. The rest of her, which was too concerned with freezing, was quick to point out that he told for her to take, he did not wrap it around her shoulders. But he was giving her permission to take it countered the first half. Her freezing half justified that greenlanders didn't know how to pay the Iron price properly--but at least he was trying.

 

In the end, Asha didn't care if it was given instead of taken, only that she would be getting warmer, and so she grabbed the cloak and wrapped it about her. The soft fur touched her frigid body immediately. Both were cold--but that would not remain that way for forever. It was a little large for her--especially in the shoulders--but it was increasingly warm, and that was all she cared about at the moment.

 

"You are a Paege, Willem, take pride in that," said Ser Halmon fondly before he returned his attention to his trunk and closed it.

 

As she warmed up, Asha's troubled Ironborn pride said that if she couldn't take she could at least trade for something of hers that she valued. After all, Asha had taken the notice of how Ser Halmon had seemed to value the cloak quite dearly. The way he had held it alone said that. And he had not offered it to her before now, despite the previous cold weather and carrying it around in a trunk that could have used more room devoted to carrying an extra cloak.

 

"Is this one of your cloaks, Ser?" asked Asha.

 

Ser Halmon then looked up as he finished securing the lock on his trunk with a turn of a key. Silently Ser Halmon and Asha shared a look between them that was both intense and emotional. The sounds of other squires struggling to keep poles straight or to knock stakes into the ground seemed to fade away from her consciousness. And then the moment passed.

 

"No, Willem, it wasn't."

 

Again silence fell between them, as Asha wondered if the cloak had belonged to a brother of his that he had cared for. Asha doubted with what little gray hair there was in his beard he had had a son older than she.

  
When Ser Halmon spoke again, before lifting the trunk, it was about the weather, saying, "If we're facing this chill here, I imagine the Westerlands smallfolk are probably worse off."

 

Any further conversation about the cloak met similar ends.  


Beyond setting up Ser Halmon's pavilion and cooking his food, her other squire's duties involved taking care of their horses. Ser Halmon's mount was more easygoing and accepting of her hands upon him. He was also a bit of a self-centered spoiled glory hog for a horse and wouldn't stop braying until she'd given him a good rub own to _his_ satisfaction, and a tied post near a healthy batch of grass for him to graze.

 

Her mount, well, he found ways to make a good brushing much more difficult for them both. When she reached to do his head, he would bend it down to nibble on some nearby clover. When she moved further down his side to his rear--he'd bat his tail in her face. One evening, Ser Halmon had come across her struggling with her own troublesome mount and laughed.

 

"Thoughts travel down the reigns," he'd said sagely, though she hadn't a bloody clue as to what that mean. The horse was as stubborn as a mule.

 

However, what Ser Halmon took the most interest in was her sword work--saying that an ax and arrows were fine, "but a knight is known for his skill with a sword, above any other weapon."

 

It was part of her cover as Ser Halmon's cousin and expected of any greenlander squire so she played her part and fucking learned to handle a sword--though the weapon still did not interest her. After all, an ax could just as easily disarm a swordsman from his sword.

 

The unwieldy thing made her arms and shoulders sore for the first few weeks and proved to be much amusement for the Westerlander squires about her age or just a bit older when gathered round one of the many fires of the camp.

 

One of Lord Lefford's squires in particular, Martyn Serrett--who wore his cream colored doublet with a strutting peacock on it with an odd pride, why anyone would want a vain peacock as symbol of their house Asha couldn't understand--surprised her when she went to put the sword away for the night.

 

He sneered, "What kind of squire doesn't know how to use a sword properly? Didn't your father teach you anything?"

 

Asha wanted to rebuttal that her father would've easily seen his dead, but Asha held her tongue, reminding herself that she was Willem Paege, not Asha Greyjoy--and Willem Paege was ashamed of his father.

 

"What, no words? Your father must be the sorriest lout in Westeros if even his own son won't defend him."

 

Before Asha realized what was happening she found herself with her throwing ax in hand and its sharp blade right next to Martyn's neck lump.

 

She intoned, "Don't ever speak of my father like that again... or I'll give you so close a shave, you won't have any skin left to grow a beard on--understand?"

 

Martyn was wide eyed and quite careful to nod his head less he cut his own neck. Asha let him leave still wide-eyed and running his hands over his long neck to be sure there weren't any nicks or cuts.

  
Once they were over the Western Mountains, the long rolling hills that led to the sea proved just as muddy and just as tiresome as the mountain passes had been--only without the threat of falling off a cliff and to one's death. They feasted at each keep they passed, the noble lords usually sleeping in a warm and soft bed, while the knights and squires slept with what men they had in tents, often getting a warm broth and some bread, but not the fine feast the noble lords had within the halls of the Westerlander lords. Their force grew in size as each lord added to Lord Lefford's number.  


This brought a new ritual to Ser Halmon's evening. After a short sword practice and lesson, Asha was usually asked to sharpen his sword or polish his armor while he talked up a particular Westerland lord that Ser Halmon had decided to learn more about. Whenever other knights asked these tasks of their squires--the Squires usually balked and sat on the far side of the fire--grumbling about the insult of not being trusted enough for the knight to leave them to their own devices, but Asha knew better from Ser Brynden.

 

Ser Brynden had always said to his squires to "Keep one ear open no matter where you are. For you never know what you may learn of the men you're to go into battle with. Listen and learn of the men you're with. Learn what makes 'em tick, that way you know who to have at your back and flanks."

 

Asha even knew that Ser Halmon subscribed to the same school of thought when he asked her casually during the ride to name seven tidbits she had learned from each lord he had spoken with. Information such as who was goodbrothers with whom--like Lord Lefford's sister, Myranda, being married to the lately killed by the smallfolk Lord Stafford Lannister helped paint a better picture of the reasons and motivations behind their Westerlander leader.

 

"Now tell me Willem, what have you learned of Ser Manfred Yew?" asked Ser Halmon as they rode down a stretch of the River Road.

 

"Ser Manfred is head of his house. His father, Ser Ivor, died with the Westerlands fleet in Blackwater Bay. Ser Stafford married him to Lady Rhyanna Ruttiger. He yet is to have any heirs by Lady Rhyanna since she hasn't bled yet. Ser Manfred carries a golden bow said to be made by his house's founder, Alan o'the Oak. Ser Manfred thinks the smallfolk are ungrateful to the protection lords and knights provide. Ser Manfred held back his men until he saw Lord Lefford."

 

"And from all of that, what can you tell me about Ser Manfred?" asked Ser Halmon with a warm smile.

 

She continued, "That although he's marching with us, he did not care for Lord Stafford as much as Lord Lefford does. He was young and forced to marry a girl even younger, but he has some affection for Lord Lefford."

 

Ser Halmon added, "Aye, Ser Manfred was squired to Lord Lefford when the last war broke out. The question though, Willem, would you trust him at your back?"

 

Asha thought for a moment before answering, "If I was Lord Lefford, aye, but anyone else... no."

  
They were drawing close to Lannisport--where the smallfolk had rumored to have congregated when Ser Lymond Vikary of Boarshead Hall had joined their rank. He was just of knightly rank, so he kept with the rest of the knights and squires in their pavilions, but he was silent and dark, by Asha's reckoning--even more than Rodrik or Maron had been. Ser Halmon had tried striking up a conversation with the brooding knight, but Ser Lymond found some excuse to avoid conversation each time.

 

Ser Halmon grumbled about it as they rode along the River Road, "Ser Lymond was one of Lord Stafford's three squires in the last war that much I know."

 

"Mayhaps he did not care for Lord Stafford?" suggested Asha--it seemed to be the consensus amongst the majority of Westerlander nobles and knights she had spoken with.

 

"There's no way to be sure, if the man will not speak to me..."

 

Ser Halmon then turned his head to Asha's right, stared for a moment before an odd expression formed on his face.

 

"Willem," he said, as Asha darted her eyes to see that one of Ser Lymond's two squires, Gwydion Myatt--a rather tall and well-muscled and handsome boy of five and ten with red hair. Asha had noticed him before, and if she were not pretending to be a boy herself she might have decided to steal a little fun out of him for a night or two.

 

"Have you spoken yet with Gwydion?" asked Ser Halmon.

 

"Nay," she answered honestly.

 

"Why ever not?"

 

Asha thought of how Willem's situation before answering, "It would not be... Ser, me being a lesser branch of a Knightly house and he of noble birth..."

 

"Aye... that you have a point..." said Ser Halmon as he cast his eyes to his left and suddenly a rather odd look crossed his face.

 

"Ser?" asked Asha, giving a brief look askance herself to see Martyn Serrett in Ser Halmon's line of sight.

 

Ser Halmon then turned to Asha and with an odd smile and a loud voice, he said as he nudged her to follow him off to the far side of the road--crossing in front of Martyn Serrett, "I'll say it once, I'll say it a thousand times, it matters not that your father married a merchant of Fairmarket, for you shall bring honor enough to your branch of the Paeges by being knighted. Put whatever whispers the other squires have out of your mind."

 

Catching on, Asha put on her brooding face and tried to interject with, "But Ser--"

 

Ser Halmon continued as they slowed their pace, Asha gave a quick glance to see that their slow pace was being matched by Martyn.

 

"Furthermore, it isn't noble to pull those axes out every time someone bothers you, lad. You'll be quick to garner a reputation which'll make no lord desire your service. I'll have to take them until you can better conduct yourself with honor."

 

"But my father--" began Asha, with the expectation of being cut off.

 

"Wants you to be a knight, not a lumberer," he said as he held out his hand for her throwing axes.

 

Asha put on her best reluctant face and unstrapped her axes from her side and gave them to Ser Halmon who stowed them on his own belt swiftly. Asha expected to return

 

"I'll take the dagger as well," added Ser Halmon with another look of exaggerated suspicion.

 

This time Asha did not have to pretend so hard to be so reluctant to give up her shrinking arsenal of defense.

 

Before returning to the march, Ser Halmon said one last thing, "Tonight pitch the pavilion by Ser Lymond's."

 

For the remainder of the day's journey, Asha tried to be mindful of both Gwydion and Martyn's presences. She knew that Ser Halmon wanted her to have Martyn bother her and Gwydion choose to do something about it. But Asha couldn't help but feel the part she was to play was a little trite the more she thought on it.

 

 _If I actually was a boy, he wouldn't ask this of me..._  
  
She decided the best thing to do was to delay the planned interaction as long as possible, and so stayed as close as she could to Ser Halmon for the rest of the ride. A few times, when she felt nervousness overtake her, she checked to make sure her throwing knives were still hidden on her in her doublet. It was an odd feeling traveling about without any weapons once again--she almost felt naked without their weight bouncing against her.

 

When Lord Lefford decided to pitch camp on a hill that some say was not too far a ride outside of Lannisport, Asha knew that it would likely be tonight or never would she get the answers Ser Halmon wanted. Lord Lefford's squires--including Martyn--pitched his pavilion at the crest of the hill, while Asha found some slightly flat spot near where the slope began to become gentle near the bottom--next to Ser Lymond's pavilion which shared the flat spot. Asha took her time assembling Ser Halmon's modest black pavilion with red and white snakes on each side. She knew she could have put it up faster than any of the other squires did theirs, but she purposely dawdled with the hopes that Martyn would see it as the best opportunity to take the bait.

 

Asha proved to be correct not long after she saw Lord Lefford's two chambered pavilion raised and smoke from a fire cooking the lord's supper. Gwydion was attempting to light a fire in front of Ser Lymond's pavilion, and Asha was hammering in the stakes with a decent sized rock she had removed from the ground under the pavilion.

 

"Need help, Paege?" asked Martyn with a smirk. His words out of context would sound helpful, even friendly, but Asha could not ignore his smarmy tone with which he said them.

 

"I can handle myself well enough, Serrett," she responded, following his lead in using his family name.

 

"Can you now? Without your axes?" added Martyn, getting uncomfortably too close to Asha as she finished pounding the one stake--hovering over her. When she did not reply, Martyn prompted her with a question, "Why so quiet?"

 

Her response she knew had to draw things out a little more, as Gwydion still was nursing his smoking but not lit fire.

 

She said as she moved to the next stake, which was a bit sharper an angle to see Gwydion at, "Mayhaps cause I need no help."

 

"Why then, it's customary to say as much, Paege--but then your father never did teach you any manners then, did he? Just like he failed at training you with a sword... and we all know how failure breeds more of its kind."

 

Gwydion was blowing hard on his fire.

 

_Too soon..._

 

Martyn continued, "Mayhaps I should teach you a lesson now, as payment for your little ax trick earlier."

 

"Have you been knighted then since this morning and are ready to take on a squire of your own? Pray forgive me for missing the ceremony," jabbed Asha, not able to hold back her tongue in this instance.

 

Martyn moved to punch, or so she thought as she ducked just at the right moment, but apparently Martyn had anticipated this with his other arm scooping her by the waist. He then brought his punching arm back around her neck and clamped tightly on it--knocking the air out of her. Frantically she gasped for breath.

 

"What, no wrestling either? Piss poor squire you are!" prodded Martyn.

 

Desperate for air, she clawed at his arm, but it only caused him to squeeze tighter around her body--as she struggled for breath, she felt something constrict her air further about her chest. Bright spots began to appear before her eyes as the rising pavilions about her began to fade. Something had to change now!

 

By the Drowned God I'll not die where I can't go to his hall!

 

And so instead of gasping for breath this time, she chomped down and bit Martyn's arm as hard as she could.

 

A scream filled her ears and the taste of a cold tangy liquid metal filled her mouth. The next moment she had fallen to her knees panting as dying grass and fallen leaves appeared before her face. As she took great deep breaths she saw red spittle droplets splatter against the brown canvas before her eyes. The scream did not end, and she felt light headed--something was still choking the air out of her and making it difficult to breath. She blacked out.

 

When she came to she was in Ser Halmon's pavilion, laid out upon her sleeping roll with furs about her. Her head still hurt and the pavilion seemed to spin about her--it had grown dark, but she could see through the flaps that a fire was lit outside of the pavilion with the sound of voices outside speaking. She sat up--and almost immediately regretted it as she coughed. The voices outside quieted and she heard footsteps enter the pavilion. She looked up to see the fair of face Gwydion Myatt standing at the flaps not a few moments later.

 

"Lay back, you're still recovering," advised Gwydion.

 

"W--what happened?" asked Asha as she complied, more to keep the world from spinning about her.

 

"You managed to bite off a decent bit of flesh from Martyn Serrett's arm--had him screaming and attracted the entire camp here," said Gwydion as he knelt down besides Asha and took her left arm in his calloused strong hands as he felt about her wrist for her pulse strength she figured.

 

"Lord Lefford isn't too pleased, as you might expect. Nor is your Ser Halmon."

 

Gwydion then leaned in closer and whispered, "What in the name of the Seven were you thinking by pretending to be a boy--my lady?"

 

At this, Asha's eyes went wide and she pried her arm from Gwydion's reach. She still felt her clothes on her, though it felt as though her doublet and shirt had been left open. Her head was beginning to settle and things began to seem clearer to her now.

 

"You were having trouble breathing still, so I brought you in here to find out. I had to cut your bindings. No one else knows yet, my lady--not even Ser Halmon--but I would not advise you continue your journey any further--it's too dangerous, especially with what plans Lord Lefford has on the morrow," answered Gwydion in an almost patronizing tone. One which a few Septas had tried on her.

 

On her Ironbon instinct she grabbed for one of her throwing knives from inside her doublet and pulled it out on Gwydion--tackling him while unprepared and shocked to the ground and rolling on top of him.

 

"You will tell no one what you know--do you understand me?" she challenged.

 

Gwydion, obviously shocked by her actions, nodded.

 

"You will find me cloth to replace what you cut," she further demanded. Again Gwydion nodded, and Asha felt some ease return to her as she added for good measure, "Good, and if I hear the slightest whisper," she said as she ran her blade gently down his well-built chest as she pushed herself up above him. She did not need to finish the sentence as the blade did the trick for her as it hovered about his lower abdomen before she pulled it off and collapsed back onto her sleeping roll and furs. Energy drained from her as her throwing knife fell limply from her hand. Gwydion seemed to recover what energy she lost like a parasite, slowly raising himself and his mud colored clothes decorated with a golden tree cat off the ground.

 

"Remember," she called as Gwydion reached the pavilion’s flaps and she limply covered her chest in furs. Gwydion did not acknowledge her words, and she nearly fell back into a sleep of sorts. It was only then that Asha realized that she likely buggered Ser Halmon's plan to get Ser Lymond to speak to him through her acquainting herself with Gwydion.

 

_Damn it all... I screwed that up..._

 

She consoled herself that it was Lady Jeyne who required her skills further in killing the snake of the smallfolk rebellion--and if Gwydion had told , but the consolation felt almost empty. The next moment she saw Gwydion appear once again at the pavilion’s flaps--only this time accompanied with Ser Lymond.

 

"My squire here tells me you require bindings for a wound you acquired in that scuffle of yours," said Ser Lymond gruffly, and Asha turned her eyes to Gwydion to see the boy give her an indeterminate look.

 

_Bugger it all..._

 

She answered, "Aye..."

 

"How much do you need? Such cloth will be quite valuable in the morn for those who come by their wounds in actual service," asked and chided Ser Lymond all at once, as he held the bandage that could serve as her bindings.

 

Asha wanted to pull out her throwing knife once more, but even she recognized that that would be useless in the face of this challenge.

 

"Ten or twelve feet," she answered.

 

Ser Lymond looked astonished, "That much?! Need I remind you boy that such... greed is hardly befitting of a future knight? There will be men--good men--who will fight and nearly die tomorrow to avenge the lives of two of the most noble of Westerland families, and you--who get into a squire's brawl--ask for ten or twelve feet?!"

 

Asha was beginning to hate all this talk of knighthood--both in its jestful and serious natures.

 

"Let me see the wound lad, and I'll bind you up myself."

 

Asha had to fight to keep herself from reacting.

 

It was then that Gwydion responded, "I'll do it myself, Ser. No need to bother yourself on such a...lowly squire."

 

Asha wanted to glare daggers at Gwydion--she was blood of the Grey King, she had more claim to royalty than he, she suspected.

 

Ser Lymond looked at Gwydion for a moment before sighing and handing him the bandage wrap, "Very well, but I will be speaking to Ser Halmon about your behavior, boy, you can be most sure of that!"

 

And with that Ser Lymond left the tent and Asha wondered at how in the end Ser Halmon got what he had wanted--though not exactly in the way he had wanted it. Gwydion remained and true to his word to Ser Lymond bound her chest once again. He did this silently and firmly as she felt her now ever larger teats than they'd been over a moon ago--or at least they felt that way--once again squished against her body until she appeared as flat as any boy her age--at which point she pulled on her shirt and Edmure's old doublet as quickly as she could.

 

All through this Gwydion stood there, as if expecting her to thank him for keeping his mouth closed. He nearly broke it, and then he expected a pat on the head as a reward for not doing so? He'd bloody receive praise for that when the Storm God brought down his hammer of fury and returned the Iron Isles into the sea from whence they came.

 

When she was finishing buttoning the buttons, Gwydion asked, "Why are you here?"

 

She decided the truth--told out of context--would work with him, "Because someone needs to chop off the head of the snake."

 

Gwydion judged her for a moment before departing, taking the rest of the bandage with him, and leaving Asha to sleep.

 

It was still dark when Ser Halmon awoke her and told her to prepare the horses.

 

"What are we doing, Ser?" asked Asha as she draped the Paege cloak about her shoulders.

 

Ser Halmon led the way to the horses and said in a loud whisper, "Lord Lefford wants a few of the knights and their squires to lead a ride through the smallfolk's encampment."

 

"Why?" she asked, though she suspected the answer already.  


Ser Halmon continued with a barely hushed whisper, "To scare them a bit... and because of your little disagreement with Martyn Serrett, Lord Lefford was eager to have us among the party."

 

Asha prepared their mounts, Ser Halmon's awaking and nuzzling her as she prepared the saddle for the ride. Her own mount was as helpful as he ever was, and even grouchier since she awoke him from his slumber. After managing to force the saddle on her own mount she brought the horses back to Ser Halmon's tent and tied them to a post while she helped the knight put on his armor and mail. She was given mail of her own from Ser Halmon's trunk--the heavy thing that it was, and had the sword she had been practicing with strapped to her side along with her returned throwing axes and dagger. A half helm not too large for her head was fitted atop her and she truly felt ready for battle.

 

"The object is to scare them into scattering and leaving," said Ser Halmon as they mounted their horses--Asha finding the additional weight of the mail and half helm throwing off her balance on mounting the horse at first, but eventually she was up upon the animal. They rode to the edge of the encampment where several other knights--including Ser Lymond and his squires--had gathered.

 

"All right, this shall be the only warning the rebels will get from us. You'll ride into their encampment, and wake a few with the flat of your blades. Scare the less loyal into fleeing and come morning we'll have fewer to slaughter. You'll then return here and come dawn we'll descend upon their encampment and free Lannisport come evening." explained Lord Lefford, who spoke upon his own mount, though he was not dressed for the occasion himself. His breath was visible in the moonlight as he spoke in the cold dark air.

 

Lord Lefford finished by throwing his arm in the air and shouting, "For the Westerlands!"

 

All the Westerlander men repeated his cry, while Ser Halmon and fellow Riverlanders merely shouted in support. They then departed west for Lannisport and the rebels.

 

It truly was not a far ride, in all respects, Asha could see--and she wondered if the rebels could. As she rode with the knights, Asha felt her Iron blood gushing through her veins like ne'er before. This was how her brothers must have felt when they themselves descended upon the Gold Coast--she figured. Tonight and on the morrow, she would do the Drowned God proud! She would sneak away while the rest of the knights went on their scare. She'd hide the armor and lie in wait for the head of the snake to poke itself out from its hole. Then she'd follow the head until he was alone... and kill him before dawn so she could return to her armor and join the fray when the knights returned with their horses come the afternoon.

 

Her horse however seemed to gather a different idea than following its new herd, and instead started to veer away from Ser Halmon--choosing to break off and run more northwest than west. Asha pulled on the reigns and attempted to regain control of her mount, but the damned horse was stubborn and willful. When her horse had slowed to a trot and began to sniff about the dying grasses about them--most likely for clover, Asha was about to dig her spurs into her horse's side right then and there. But then a general cry went out from not too far ahead of horses and men screaming in a great tumultuous noise. In an instant Asha dismounted and lifted her visor. It was too dark to see anything too far ahead of her, so she stumbled some distance away from her now grazing horse. It was then that she saw before her were not only the dark stone walls of Lannisport--rebuilt and lit at several watch towers, but she saw beneath the walls a mass of humanity--some looked dead with how pale and thin they appeared in the moonlight at this distance the way they laid there outside of Lannisport--though many were rousing themselves with all the noise coming from the closer mass of figures before Asha. She was shocked to see several knights and horses having fallen to the ground. Several were attempting to rise--several horses unable to--their whinnies ringing out in the night. Asha ran to get closer now to try and understand what had happened, but stopped when it became all too clear. Long trenches had been dug in front of the rebel "camp"--if a bunch of half starving and nearly frozen people huddled together in rags could be called a camp--and from what Asha could see these trenches had been covered with dead vines and leaves. Several knights were now abandoning their horses or killing them to put them out of their miseries and then turning their attentions to the awakening mass of humanity.

 

All thoughts of killing the snake's head left her, as Asha thought of only one thing--Ser Halmon.

 

She ran to the line of fallen mounts and knights. Some horses were still attempting to rise on now lame or limping legs, while a few knights had been tossed and contorted into positions no man could survive. As cries went out closer to the walls of Lannisport, she scrambled searched the line of fallen knights frantically for Ser Halmon... only to be grabbed by her ankle by one of the armored men. Her immediate instinct to kick was sparked and her boot met where only his mail alone was showing. It was then that Asha saw the person she had kicked was wearing a muddy brown surcoat with a golden spotted tree cat upon the field. She recognized the banner immediately.

 

"Ser Lymond needs help!" called out Gwydion from beneath his full helm.

 

"I'll return," said Asha in order to dismiss the squire for the nonce. She departed for further down the line. She hurried past many dead or wounded horses, and a few which had somehow survived the fall. It wasn't until she backed up to avoid one of these equine survivors that she tripped and fell backwards onto a body. She turned her head to see that the surcoat was black with a red and white snake entwined. Relieved, Asha shook her knight. But no reaction did this provoke from the man. Fearful as to what she would see, Asha then pulled off the great helm to find it stuck somewhat on his head. After some tugging, Asha managed to pull it off and found a trickle of blood coming from the helmet. The top of the great helm had battered itself against the top of the knight's head when he'd fallen, smashing his skull and twisting his neck. There was no other way about it... Ser Halmon was dead.

 

Half of her wanted to scream, the other felt dead cold as the wind picked up.

 

_This is death, sudden and bloody..._

 

Asha could only stare at Ser Halmon for a moment before she recalled Lady Jeyne's words... now was her opportunity... Ser Halmon had gotten her this far, she would needs go the rest of the way. And with that, Asha, holding back any treacherous tears which threatened to stream down her cheek--there would be time for mourning later--she stripped off her own half helm, mail, and sword--but kept her throwing axes and dagger--and moved to slip into the shadows of the wall of Lannisport. From above she saw tower men from the closest tower taking advantage of the confusion caused by the knights and shooting into the mass mob. The promises Lord Lefford had committed his knights to of using the flat of their blades long gone with the anger at losing their comrades and mounts as they cut through the depleted mob. Asha was lucky to be missed by one of the arrows, and she pressed herself flat against the shadowed walls of Lannisport as she waited for the outcome. The knights were brutal--but the smallfolk, armed with clubs, hoes, and other farming equipment attempted to fight for their lives. These weapons were no match for the small horde of knights and their squires. Eventually it became clear to Asha that one of the leaders of the smallfolk was leading them in the fight-- hitting off knights with only a blacksmith's hammer and a crudely made wooden shield. He met his end with a mace to the back of his head. Seeing him fall, the smallfolk suddenly broke and began to scurry--much of their numbers fleeing as far as they could from the knights. Soon their number was too widely spread and running too fast for the fully armored knights to keep up. It was then that Asha fell to the ground and pretended to be dead along with a few frozen smallfolk near the wall-less she out of armor be mistaken and killed for one of the rebels. The knights gathered and returned to the trench, gathering up all the horses still sure of foot and began the trek back to Lord Lefford's encampment.

 

Is the snake's head already dead? Wondered Asha, but as soon as the knights had departed--most having left their dead or wounded comrades and horses behind, Asha took note of.

 

_So much for Greenlander chivalry..._

 

It was then that some of the smallfolk began to return, and the sun began to peek over the Western Mountains to the east. Asha then looked down upon her clothes and realized she might be taken for a lord by the smallfolk and as sneakily as she could she exchanged Edmure's old clothes for what articles she could fit over them from the nearby frozen or dead bodies. Once disguised she felt more at ease with the returning smallfolk.

 

They return because their head has not been killed...

 

Many gathered around the fallen man who had wielded the blacksmith's hammer.

 

"A truer man has ne'er lived!" shouted one.

 

"He was the first to speak out in my village against the unjust tax..." called out another.

 

"He should never have left..." mourned a woman tearfully.

 

And then Asha saw the true head of the snake appear, with a dwarf in motley clothes and tied to the man by a rope at his heels. The dwarf was the ugliest creature Asha had ever seen--both black and white of hair, with mismatching eyes, and a sour look upon his face that would curdle milk.

 

"Friends--we must not despair! Our Blacksmith... our Michael, has given his life so that we may avenge his.

 

"But they've killed so many of us!

 

"We're cold and have been starving here for weeks upon weeks, and are no closer to seeing the Lannister of the Rock!"

 

More voices of dissent and the whining of some children joined in.

 

_The head is losing control of his body..._

 

Asha slunk in amongst the gathering crowd and prepared a throwing knife. All it would take was one good throw to his chest or throat and he'd be done for. She positioned herself well between two oblivious larger men so that her knife could fly between them to its target.

 

It was then that another voice "Farran, we must reconsider," suggested another voice almost sagely just as her knife left her hands.

 

That name stopped Asha, and she turned to look at the snake's head once again. She could hardly believe it when she did. Farran had been the name of one of Rodrik and Maron's closest companions from Old Wyk. The descendent of a thrall who had taken the Drowned God as the one true god, and whom Rodrik and Maron had sat for hours upon hours with speaking and plotting before invading the Westerlands--ignoring her. She turned and was shocked to see her knife had met its target--his neck. Blood poured from the wound and his mouth as he gurgled for breath and fell to the ground.

 

Confusion broke out instantly as Asha regained control of herself. She began to play the part of the angered smallfolk looking for the culprit. Meanwhile the dwarf had taken the knife from the dying Farran and began to cut away at his ropes in all the chaos.

 

Now was the time to flee and so she made a run for it for the trenches of dead or wounded knights.

 

"Stop!" called out a voice from behind her, and Asha continued to run--this time only faster. Thoughts of death soon began to run through her mind... she had killed an Ironborn... with her own hands... she had killed one of her own kind, a fellow child of sea and salt. From afar she could hear the sea on the other side of the city crashing against the walls of the city--mocking her in the early dawn light. Confused and disgusted with herself, Asha stumbled amongst the dead and dying knights. Behind her she could hear faint footfalls. Death would come.

 

_I should have run for the sea..._

 

Not that it would matter now. There would be no place for her in the Drowned God's Hall beneath the waves. She fell forward over a body she had thought dead and then waited for the end to come.

 

"You came back," groaned a voice, and Asha looked up to see a battered Gwydion. Asha looked about her and saw a wounded Ser Lymond, whose one leg looked twisted. A moment later the dwarf--huffing and puffing unlike anything she had seen, collapsed when he could run no further. Asha looked back to the smaller mass of smallfolk--many of which were either fighting amongst themselves or fleeing like she and the dwarf had. Chaos reigned supreme.


	62. Benjen III

**BENJEN**  
  
Upon seeing those ships flying the pear of Tyrosh from their masts, Captain Qyrmet began shouting out commands for all hands to prepare for a sudden change of course. Instantly men began scurrying about deck, leaving Benjen speechless for a moment.  
  
“Best get your men prepared for battle, my Lord!” called out the Captain as he crossed the deck.  
  
“For battle?! Why? We are not at war with the Archon of Tyrosh!”  
  
“Nor is he officially at war. Tyrosh hires pirate sellsails to ensure its trade through the Stepstones is less pilfered than that of Lys or Myr. In exchange, the Archon of Tyrosh offers these Pirates his banner and protection when need be.”  
  
 _Planky Town! That is how the pirates must have gotten so close to pass the Royal Navy… but to attack within Blackwater Bay? The sheer madness of it!_  
  
“You mean to tell me that the Tyroshi protect the pirates they were raised up to beat back?” asked Benjen, recalling Maester Luwin’s lessons on the value and history of each port city that he’d given him when Ned had made it clear Benjen was to be a Stark focused on the sea.  
  
“That was centuries ago. Now, a Tyroshi merchant vessel and a pirate’s ship have very little difference,” clucked Captain Qyrmet, who barked at a cabin boy who tripped to get out of the way.  
  
“Every sword will be needed, my lord. Less you truly wish to have us visit Slaver’s Bay!” shouted Captain Qyrmet to Benjen, who only then  
  
“My sword is ready father!” called out the captain’s son had pulled out a thin and delicate Braavosi-style blade from his side—the blade of a Water-Dancer.  
  
At this, Captain Qyrmet immediately put his foot down upon the line he had been helping to hold and stood to look down upon his eager face and brightly lit pale green eyes—the same shade as his father’s. “No, Fryrik! To my cabin!” he shouted, before returning his attention to the line. Fryrik’s face feel immediately, and Benjen saw on it a disappointment he’d seen a few times upon his nephews’ faces when Ned had not the time for them.  
  
“Now! My lord!” shouted the Captain to Benjen as he tied the line into a sailor’s knot, and with that Benjen hurried for below decks to rouse his men.  
  
Benjen moved swiftly from the fore to the aft shouting for all the men to stir themselves and done their swords and boiled leathers—better that than clunky armor that’d see them sink to the bottom if they fell overboard—Benjen thought. If he was a greater lord, he might have had servants to make such an announcement for him while he prepared—but he was but newly minted, and thus undertake this task on his own before donning his own leathers himself.  
  
At his heels, Fryrik had given pursuit, echoing Benjen’s orders not long after he gave them and causing some of the men to laugh and slow their pace of preparation. When Benjen realized this, he turned and gave Fryrik a look Benjen had found worked particularly well on his nephews and Ned’s wards when they knew they had done something wrong. Fryrik froze and withered on the spot—caught in mid-shout when Benjen had turned.  
  
“I believe your father and captain gave you an order,” said Benjen when he felt silence had worked well enough.  
  
It was then that the dark-haired lad seemed to recall that Benjen held little to any real power over him, and stood taller before answering in a manner quite uncannily like Robb would whenever he spoke of being the future Lord of Winterfell, “I want to be of help, milord!”  
  
Benjen briefly considered how the lad might further impede him both if he helped or not helped—weighing the value of each before replying, “Go and run back to the fore and tell my men that Lord Stark orders them to move themselves—we haven’t time for dawdling.”  
  
“Aye, sir!” said Fryrik with a rather serious nod that reminded Benjen of Jon, before the lad ran back the way they had come while Benjen continued his progress further into the aft of the ship. There he found his own hammock and donned his own leathers. He’d just finished adjusting his scabbard over his leathers when he heard shouts from above deck. With his hand upon the pommel of his sword, Benjen hurried as fast as he could above deck, followed by many of his men—Evan Paw being at his heels. He looked to see the other ships of their fleet had turned liked them, with a few still in the midst of their course correction of sailing for the Southwestern waters and King’s Landing. The furthest back of these ships had already had a Tyroshi ship come aside and Benjen watched as a few men from the Tyroshi ship boarded their rear ship.  
  
“Gods almighty,” exclaimed Evan, who at once seemed shocked and furious. Sensing a mixture of emotion about his men, Benjen knew that this was the time that singers usually attributed great speeches to famous warriors. Benjen had nothing planned, so he went with whatever could rally his men as they saw their battle coming for them.  
  
“We came to fight pirates!” declared Benjen as more ships siphoned off onto different ships, with a particularly large one aimed directly for them. The attention of the men was still mostly upon that of the ensuing battle taking place aboard the other ships.  
  
So Benjen felt he had to stir the pot more, though he felt awkward taking such a commanding tone he was far more used to hearing from Brandon or even Ned—but he thought of Brandon, and the way with just a few words, you might melt in his power, and so Benjen continued—half praying for his Brother’s assistance, “We’ll give them a fight to remember! The North has fought off pirates before! We drove them from our shores thousands of years ago and raised the Wolf’s Den and White Harbor!”  
  
At the sound of White Harbor, a larger portion of the men turned their attention from the ships to Benjen—that was it then, Benjen figured, he needed to play up to their own loyalties… to the North!  
  
“It is in our blood to defeat them! The North remembers, even if they have forgotten! Remind them why we Northmen are piratesbane!”  
  
Apparently Brandon had come through for him, for upon hearing the last bit, a rallied cheer burst out, followed by a few of the men beginning to chant “The North Remembers!” while others took up the cry “Piratesbane!”, and together the two cries crescendoed until breaking out into an all out roar.  
  
It was all at once exhilarating and terrifying for Benjen—to have captured such loyalty… he had not ever expected to do as such—being but a third son—but now, to have done so, he could not help but feel this moment, here and now he would remember for the rest of his days that he truly became a man.  
  
The cries did not waver or dissipate, but seemed to draw the courage of the men there. And together the two cries surged and peaked as their own band of pirates swung from the ropes of their ship and landed in an attempt to take them. The ensuing fight between scurrilous pirates and the rallied Northmen was chaotic—as soon as one pirate fell another two swung over to take his place. Benjen’s first confrontation came with a young pirate—barely older than a boy by his measure—who had a rainbow colored dyed handkerchief tied about his head to keep his long blue locks from getting in his face. Benjen without thinking sliced his own sword into the boy-man’s belly, leaving it open and the young man screaming in pain, clutching at his belly, and in a fit that would rival an afflicted of the Shaking Sickness. In shock Benjen had stared at the sight for a moment—caught off guard by his first messy kill. The dark red, almost purplish blood seemed to billow and spill from the young man’s guts as entrails began to pulse and poke through. Benjen was almost caught off guard in that instant by another pirate—this one far older and crustier and appearing on the rampage. What drew his attention was Evan’s tackling the man and savagely beating in his skull with his mace—blood squirting as the sorry thing crushed and caved in. Benjen was brought back to his battle and knew that he had to fight—or die this day, and so took on yet another batch of the pirates.  
  
Oddly enough, the pirates did not seem interested in doing battle with his Northmen—instead taking every opportunity when between opponents to try and take out as much of the crew as they could, the Captain having to pull out his own sword of a Water Dancer and do battle with a large hulking beast of a man, who seemed to rock the ship with each step he took—but the grace and nimbleness of his water dancing out shone the heavy and beleaguered swings of the man beast pirate. But it wasn’t until Evan’s mace to the back of the man beast’s head came that he fell. Evan then proceeded to do as he had done to the pirate who might have killed Benjen—and might have finished the job had another pirate—sliced at Evan’s unprotected side—between leather pieces—and Benjen heard Evan scream and Benjen immediately descended upon the opportunistic pirate, and swung his blade at the man’s sword arm, hacking into it and slicing away some of the flesh to the bone. The pirate dropped his sword and fell to the deck. His other comrades were diving off the ship at this point, abandoning what they likely saw as a futile attack.  
  
In the aftermath, Benjen looked to the other ships to see that all of them were still in the process of battling the pirates, but some like they had had beaten them off and were now turning to help those who hadn’t. Benjen barked to Captain Qyrmet to turn the ship around to help the others, and like a wolf pack descending upon wounded prey the rest of their small fleet attacked the remaining pirate ships—even managing to capture one of the pirates’ own ship themselves. However there were not enough crew amongst all the ships to spare to make that one ready as well, and so they took as much as loot and supplies from it as each of their ships could handle, and sunk it.  
  
The fight had been a victory, but the first ships that had been attacked had suffered quite a loss of life—especially of the crew of those ships, which appeared in the aftermath to have been the sole target of the pirates’ collective efforts. Later, as King’s Landing drew closer to their view and along with it more of the Royal Navy, Benjen discussed with Captain Qyrmet what he would discuss with the Master of Ships, Lord Stannis Baratheon.  
  
After having gone over the reports of the battle upon each of the ships. One thing puzzled Benjen, “They weren’t interested in our ships or supplies… why kill the crew?”  
  
The answer the captain had for him was not a promising one at all, “It takes skill to sail a ship—and years of knowledge—if the crew is taken out, that means that they must be replaced—no? And they will be replaced with far less experienced men and captains, who will be far easier to pillage from than skilled sailors. That at least makes the most sense to me. And once it is known that they kill captains and crew—who amongst the sell sails would be willing to be bought for your cause?”  
  
 _Who would indeed?_  
  
  
After his meeting with Captain Qyrmet, Benjen returned to his rounds of seeing to the wounded men. He recalled Ned speaking of this task, and how it had cheered the morale of both injured and hale alike. Benjen had only just earned their faith and loyalty—he wasn’t about to lose it so easily now. Words were not his strong suit, but Benjen found he didn’t need to speak for this action—the light in all the men’s eyes began to glow as he walked past them and attended to each other’s wounds as best they could until they could see a maester in King’s Landing. The ship’s steward had begun to boil some of the remaining wine to help clean the worst of the wounds. Assisting this process was Master Arthur who went from man to man pouring wine and tying bandages as quick as he could. He squire of sorts hung to the shadows—seemingly unhelpful and dark of look as he stumbled begrudgingly to calm one man with harsh clipped words. Then Benjen came upon the Bear Island boys—as he thought of them, and was shocked to how many still lived and even more how drenched with the blood of pirates their clothes and bodies were. They huddled around one of their own who was the most injured of any of them—though Benjen saw one with a few fingers missing—and another with a nasty gash across his forehead. They seemed to be protecting their injured comrade from the rest of the ship.  
  
“What’s going on here?” asked Benjen.  
  
“Evan’s recovering,” answered one of the older boys rather stoically.  
  
“Has his wounds been seen to yet?”  
  
A few answered no, and a few answered yes rather too quickly.  
  
“Which is it?” he questioned. Feeling that Benjen felt it necessary to ensure the boy who’d saved his life lived far longer than this day, Benjen insisted, “Let me see him!”  
  
At first the boys only became tighter in their wish to guard Evan, but then Evan’s voice came from within their huddled mass moaning “Get me that damn boiling wine!” At which point one of the boys departed, leaving a gap they tried to cover before Benjen slipped in, but failed to do so.  
  
Evan was far paler than Benjen remember seeing him and took cautious breaths. The left side of his garments stained and growing an ever deeper red, covered sloppily by a set of bandages that Evan held to his side with his bloodied hand.  
  
“Take off your doublet. We need to see the wound more clearly,” stated Benjen as his mind raced with attempts to save Evan’s life in his head.  
  
“We can take care of this, my lord,” began one of the other boys, but Benjen had ignored him, falling to his knees and beginning to unbutton Evan’s doublet, only to discover that beneath it and the shirt he wore, that Evan had bounded his chest in an action that Benjen recognized immediately.  
  
It had been a lady who had saved his life and viscously killed several pirates… a lady who introduced herself at long last as Dacey Mormont.  



	63. Eddard IV

**EDDARD**  
  
No sooner had Eddard managed to amass his forces at Moat Cailin, gathering together mostly forces made of old men and second or third sons to houses as Cregard Stark, the Old Man of Winter, had done before him. While he had waited for his furthest bannermen to send reinforcements to Moat Cailin and make it through the deepening snows, he had met with Howland Reed—who had emerged from the freezing cold mists of the Neck to speak with Eddard upon the moment his forces had settled into Moat Cailin. Ned arranged for a few men and for Howland to see that Moat Cailin was secure before heading further south. With Pirates attacking on the Eastern coasts under the command of Euron Greyjoy—mayhaps the Ironmen might seize the opportunity to attack on the West Coast. In either case, Ned prepared for the worst, hoping that things wouldn’t come to that and that this would simply be a short little war and that he would return home to Winterfell, Catelyn, and their growing wolf pack. In the meanwhile he simply had to settle himself for the mists of the Neck and the warm dampness that awaited him south of the Neck.  
  
Furthermore he had the misfortune for a raven with one eye missing to take a particular interest in following him about wherever he went shortly after installing himself in Moat Cailin. Three times the damn thing had tried to perch on his shoulder and each time Eddard had felt the need to brush the bird off his shoulder—and yet it came back, persistent in its cause, as the chick that Theon had found was to his shoulder. Once Ned had even tried throwing some dried corn at a far distance from him to entice the creature away from him, but all that had earned from the creature was a flap of its wings followed by a defiant caw as it refused to go too far a distance from Eddard  
  
Eddard was prepared to march south to King’s Landing to join Robert’s war efforts when a letter arrived from Winterfell by a rider who had damned near killed his horse making the journey to reach Moat Cailin in time.  
  
The letter was from Robert and it contained within it a change of plans and orders.  
  
 _To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Commander of Arms and Men, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_  
  
 _Ned,_  
  
 _The smallfolk of the Westerlands have risen in rebellion and I need you to settle the matter quickly and expertly. I have sent Ser Jaime Lannister with a few Westerlander swords of the Holy Hundred to meet you at Castle Darry to assist you and your Northern forces. I care not what you do to silence this rebellion since they have murdered both Lord Regent Stafford Lannister and Lord Tyrion Lannister when both attempted to negotiate peacefully with them. Hang the lot of them or take their heads, it makes little difference to me. Just do it and be done with it so you can hurry to King’s Landing with all haste. I want you by my side when we make sail for the ruddy Stepstones._  
  
 _Robert_  
  
Eddard knew not how to respond to such a letter. That those guilty of killing the Lords Lannister should be punished, Eddard thought only right. That would be justice. But the reports Robert sent along with his missive spoke of how the rebels numbered in the thousands—some of whom were children following their mothers—and were soon to descend upon Casterly Rock. Surely not every hand had gone into killing the Lords Lannister… and yet to make one such distinction and have it be the truth… gods, he did not feel up to such a task. And that Robert would ask such a thing of him…  
  
 _I would rather ride to King’s Landing and set sail for the Stepstones…_

 

These thoughts troubled Eddard as he moved south on the King’s Road, the crow not leaving Eddard’s side despite the move from its likely home, for Castle Darry—which received him warmly. Castle Darry was a rather small castle, especially in comparison to the wealth of its inhabitants. Situated a half day’s ride south of the trident, it sat on a little stream which fed into the Red Fork near where the Ruby Ford lay. The elder Ser Willem Darry, great-uncle to the newly minted young lord, rode out to greet Eddard on the King’s Road and escort him personally into the Ploughman’s Keep to the young Lord Darry’s solar where the young lord of nine and ten namedays eagerly awaited to greet him—or so Ser Willem said. There was something of a slight there, Eddard detected, from the young lord—but considering his elder two brothers had died in the rebellion fighting for Rhaegar, that was to be somewhat expected. As Eddard approached the heart of Castle Darry, he and Ser Willem spoke. Apparently the old man found retirement that had been given to him to not be quite dull. As Eddard dismounted and strode for the Lord’s solar, he half-listened to the old man, eager to play his part in one last war.

 

“Truly, my lord, I would much prefer a sword in my hands. This business of idling about—I am not meant for such a task!” insisted Ser Willem as he fumbled with a wooden object that Eddard did not recognize, as the old man had always been apt to do.

 

Eddard had a whole army full of old men like him, in good conscious he could not refuse the man—though he would give him every opportunity to back out of his desires.

 

“And does not your great-nephew need your advice in settling into his new position as Lord Darry?” asked Eddard.

 

Ser Willem responded, “My brother was always the one raised for ruling, my lord.”

 

_Where have I heard that before?_

 

“I fear I am as much help to my great-nephew as a coxcomb is to a lady. But you are off for war, my lord—and the promise of one last ride out to face the enemies of the realm… I cannot in good conscience sit by the sidelines while boys half my age or younger die for me in a Winter’s war. That is simply… unnatural!”

 

Eddard almost smiled. The North felt much the same—especially in Winter. But not many in the south agreed with such thoughts, so to find one southron who still held to that… why it was a fine thing indeed. For that alone, Eddard spoke the words that Ser Willem had been eagerly waiting to hear all this time, “If you are so set on this, I have no objections, though I am sure you would wish to acquaint your great-nephew with your plans.”

 

“Of course, my lord!” exclaimed Ser Willem as the doors to the solar opened and Eddard looked to see the young Lord Darry, his younger brother Ser Raymun, and the castle’s maester deep in argument.

 

“I absolutely refuse to marry that rebel bitch!” shouted Raymun furiously.

 

“Seven help us…” groaned Ser Willem as they stood in the entranceway to the solar.

 

“Lady Keath is from an old and well respected family,” assured the maester on deaf ears to the arguing brothers.

 

Lord Darry pressed his case, “Father betrothed you to Lady Betrys when you were both seven—this cannot be dismissed.”

 

“You are lord now, aren’t you? You could set it aside if you wished!” retorted the young Ser Raymun.

 

“It’s what’s best for the fam--ahh… Lord Stark,” countered his elder brother before changing into a more

 

“Forgive my intrusion, Lord Darry, but I will more than willingly wait outside if you need time to finish—” began Eddard.

 

“You can wait outside of Castle Darry for as much as you’re welcome here, rebel!” shouted the six and ten Raymun

 

“Brother, if you continue to not speak to Lord Stark in such a manner which honors his rank and station, I will be forced to confine you to your chambers!” snapped the young Lord Darry, standing and narrowing his eyes.

 

Raymun rather hot-temperately spat, “He has not had bread and salt yet, he’s no guest of ours.”

 

Eddard only gave the overgrown boy who had not a beard upon his chin an icy glare as cold as the North in bleak mid-winter. This seemed to cool the young knight’s fury, but only for the moment. Lord Darry took advantage of this moment to nod to his guards, and they escorted Ser Raymun from his brother’s solar. Once the guards had left and it was only Eddard, the maester, Ser Willem, and Lord Darry, the young lord sank into his chair behind his desk and brought a hand up to his head as if to clutch at a nagging headache. But no sooner had he done as such, Lord Darry seemed to recall himself and he rose and said, “Forgive me for not receiving you on the road with my great-uncle, Lord Stark, but my discussion with my brother about his betrothed took much longer than expected.”

 

“I fear I must bear some of the blame, Lord Stark. I had tried to remind his lordship of the passage of time, but did not speak up enough to keep the boys—brothers from

 

“Cefin, that will be all,” said Lord Darry with a noted finality to his tone. The Maester bowed his head, rose from his seat and departed the solar without another word.

 

“The man still treats me as if I were still learning to write my name at his instruction…” grumbled Lord Darry.

 

“Give it time, great-nephew. All men fail to see when their sons have grown,” assured Ser Willem.

 

“Did my mother cuckold my father and is Maester Cefin my father then?” replied Lord Darry darkly. Ser Willem seemed humbled by such a response and excused himself for the nonce.

 

“To a maester, every child he instructs is like his own progeny,” added Eddard kindly.

 

“I suppose,” clucked Lord Darry.

 

It was then that the bread and salt were brought in by a serving girl and Eddard partook of it.

 

After Eddard had finished his bread—which had been warm as though freshly taken out of the oven, with nuts and honey baked into it rather lavishly for such a simple tradition--and salt, Lord Darry then cleared his throat and began, “I was quite pleased to hear that you and your men were to arrive at Castle Darry, for I have wished to ask something of you, Lord Stark, for some time now. It seems the gods must be on my side to arrange such a fortuitous meeting.”

 

The lad was laying it on a little thick, but Eddard nodded, indicating that he wished for the boy to continue.

 

And continue, Lord Darry did, “Lord Ryswell of the Rills has a younger half-brother, whose eldest daughter I have become acquainted with. I would seek your permission, my lord, to pursue an alliance with your bannerman’s family.”

 

It was a formality which went back to the days when the Seven Kingdoms had actually been separate kingdoms, but it was one usually done in letter, “You have my blessing, Lord Darry. Though, I wonder at your going to such pains to seek such a marriage when there is little advantage to it to your lands and neighbors. I am curious as to why you would seek such a match when surely there must be Riverlords with daughters to bring more than enough wealth to Darry.”

 

The young Lord Darry began to speak, “That is a fair question, my lord. One which deserves a fair answer. My father once told me that he expected me to rise to a Kingsguard—to serve beside my uncle Jonothor in time. As such he made no provision or marriage alliance for me. Raymun was to become a maester until he proved… ill fitted for such a profession and I had two elder brothers besides. War took the first, and sickness the second not a sennight before my father’s own death. Even when I became father’s spare, he still expected me to become a Kingsguard, arranging Raymun to marry. He sent me to tournaments in King’s Landing and wherever else so I could earn a name for myself in the lists to gain the attention of the King. I met Lady Rhian at a tournament there. She’d come south to cheer for her brother, Ser Mark, and give him her favor. At the time I thought only to make a connection that might ease my father’s plans for me. By befriending Ser Mark’s sister, I hoped to have Ser Mark and eventually the other Kingsguard take notice of me. But the Lady Rhian… she is truly a remarkable woman. I met her at all the tourneys her brother competed in—she traveled south for each one, and soon I came to look forward for a tourney, not because of the victories I might have—for I never made it too high on the lists—but the one time I rode with her favor I thought that—forgive me you must think me a blabbering fool.”

 

The young Lord Darry blushed, apparently quite self-conscious of what he had let himself say. Despite his nine and ten namedays, the young lord at this moment looked very much like a boy, but unlike the maester or Ser Willem had, Eddard knew better than to treat him like the boy he was acting.

 

Instead Eddard treated him as the lord he was attempting to be, though obviously never trained for. Eddard could sympathize with that position quite well. “I wish you the best of luck in your suit, my lord. My men and I will only make camp for two nights while we receive your hospitality. The King’s men shall leave with me. His grace thanks you for the hospitality to which you have shown them.”

 

“And then it’s off to the Westerlands?” asked Lord Darry.

 

Eddard answered, “Aye.”

 

“My great-uncle as well?” asked Lord Darry with knowing smile.

 

Eddard merely stared at Lord Darry in response, though he felt his eyebrows twitch.

“I may be young, Lord Stark, but I am not blind or deaf. I have some men of my own to spare in your campaign against these rebels, men who my great-uncle can lead under you.”

 

“I thank you, Lord Darry.”

 

The young Lord, with his patchy chin beard smiled, and Eddard took his leave of the young Lord Darry so that he might inspect the King’s men that awaited him.

 

Eddard found Ser Jaime and his companions in the practice yards, beating dummies. All the men of the Holy Hundred at sight of him stopped what they were doing and gave Eddard a nod of respect, though Eddard was sure it was pained given his choice of beliefs. The only man who hadn’t halted what he had been doing , was Ser Jaime—who continued hacking at a straw dummy that had more straw on the ground beneath it than in its ripped sackcloth body. Eddard watched as the King’s lone Kingsguard brought so much fury to the last

 

Ser Jaime then noticed that everyone around him had stopped practicing and roared, “Why is everyone lolling—ahh… my Lord Stark. Forgive me. I hadn’t noticed your arrival.”

 

His demeanor was dangerous and yet lackadaisical—as though he were on the precipice of a great gorge and teetering on the edge of falling into it. It was then Ser Jaime gave his courtesies, as frenzied as they were, after which Ser Jaime left the destroyed dummy to be replaced by one of Lord Darry’s servants.

 

“Have you come to discuss our campaign’s strategies, my lord?” asked Ser Jaime.

 

“If I am not interrupting your training,” replied Eddard.

 

“I have been in the practice yard day and night for a sennight, I could use a little strategy break.” He spoke as if he had been obliged to train, and not as if it had been his choice—but Eddard knew better than to fall for such an easy demeanor. The Kingsguard was troubled—and that was the true reason he had been sent, likely by the Lord Commander.

 

Eddard’s pavilion had been erected by this point outside of Castle Darry and it was there that he and Ser Jaime walked to.

 

Ser Jaime was keen to speak of the matter of attacking the rebels, eagerly jumping into it when a map of the Westerlands had been rolled out onto a table for them to examine, “I would say that your best bet is down the Riverroad, but with all the rains and snow we’ve been getting that way will be nothing but mud and slow us down.”

 

“The Ocean Road is being fortified by the Tyrells,” said Eddard.

 

“And the Gold Road is likely blocked off with snow at this time of year, so mud it is, then, unless you would take your men off the given road and we follow the Tumblestone through the Northern mountains to Ashemark, and from there make our way to the coast

 

“The Tumblestone does not reach Ashemark,” countered Ned.

 

“Surely we could find some path of sorts through there,” dismissed Ser Jaime.

 

Ned furthered his point by saying, “We will not get into the Westerlands any faster if we do.”

 

“But we have to! Now!” growled Ser Jaime with his clenched fist pound the table quite close to where the last reports of the rebels had been—not far from outside Casterly Rock—more than a moon ago.

 

“Ser Jaime, you did all you could.”

 

“No I didn’t! For three years! For three years I marked time waiting for the bloody High Septon to dismiss justice on ‘faithless babes’… when I should… when I should have…”

 

Eddard said nothing. He knew exactly what Ser Jaime felt and there was nothing anyone could say to put his mind to rest—of that Eddard knew quite well.

 

“I’ll kill them…” promised Ser Jaime darkly, and the blasted crow which had taken up residence in Ned’s pavilion cawed at that.

 

“Who?” prodded Eddard.

 

Ser Jaime snarled, “The rebels.”

 

“The smallfolk?” questioned Eddard.

 

At being reminded this, Ser Jaime seemed troubled, he once again banged his fist onto the table and rose, mumbling, “Too many bloody oaths,” before he took his leave.

 

That night Eddard was troubled in his sleep. When he closed his eyes he was taken back to the Stoney Sept and the blood soaked streets, but this time all the soldiers were replaced with dead smallfolk and his hands were stained red with blood. He stumbled through the town until he came to the fountain with a fish statue. He dipped his hands into the water but no matter what he did, he couldn’t wash them free of the stain. He scrubbed his skin off, and yet the muscle beneath were red too. He tore away the muscle and the bones were red as well.

 

He awoke to the sound of the crow making a great racket at the other end of the pavilion. In only his shift, Eddard rose and crossed his darkened pavilion from his cot to his war table. The crow perched on a nearby trunk, continuing to caw as Eddard stared at it. He wanted to throw something at the irritating bird, but he knew that that would be pointless, and so he clutched his ears and tried to hold them shut—but even that could not block out the crow’s caws. The crow, then took flight and settled itself on the back of another chair at his war table.  
  
“Trouble sleeping cousin?” asked a voice, Eddard had not heard in some time. He turned to the chair which he had heard the voice only to see that where the crow had perched now sat the coldly grim Great Bastard he’d last seen when he’d taken the weirwood seed.  
  
“I am dreaming,” grumbled Eddard, and wondered if he stepped outside his tent if he would be at the Stoney Sept again.

 

“You are quite awake,” countered Bloodraven.

 

_Assures the dream…_

 

Eddard challenged, “If I am awake, then how did you get in here?”  
  
“I’m not in your pavilion. I am merely projecting an appearance of myself into your mind since I thought you might wish to speak face to face instead of to a bird—though if you prefer the raven—”

 

And the strangest thing of all—well strange for the world outside a dream—began to occur as the Great Bastard seemed to grow faint and fade from existence—becoming as translucent as Dornish silk. Upon the back of the chair still perched the crow—suddenly still as though it were in a trance.

And then it opened its mouth and Bloodraven’s voice came out and said “I can understand any aversion you might have to illusions.”

  
“No! Your… true form is fine enough.”

The crow seemed to pause for a moment, tilt its head curiously, and then not a moment later did Bloodraven reappear sitting in the chair.

  
As he watched all this occur, Eddard remembered Old Nan’s tales of the Great Bastard.

 

 _A sorcerer, capable of sharing skins and bending the wills of animals to his own…_  
  
Bloodraven apparently could guess what he was thinking, as he replied, “I have been accused of worse things, but I wouldn’t think a man who puts his faith in the gods would call a greenseer a sorcerer? Or has your wife’s religion softened your devotion to our gods?”  
  
“I would not speak of my wife or my faith so… freely,” growled Eddard. Bloodraven remained silent, prompting Eddard to add, “Why have you come to speak with me? All this time I have nary a word from you.”

 

“I have come to give you advice and to let you see with eyes that are not available to you.”  
  
Eddard dismissed, “Then give it and be gone.”

 

“You must be ready to listen, truly listen,” countered Bloodraven

 

“I am.”

 

“No you are not. Your mind is filled with stained red hands and the corpses of smallfolk strewn through streets.”

 

Eddard glared at Bloodraven in that moment.

 

“I would not trouble your mind over the issue.”

 

“Such are the words of a kinslayer…”

 

“I have no regrets for my nephew’s death. I took the cup which had passed unto me and drank deep of it, and paid heavily for that drink. Now you must do yours.”

 

“By slaying countless innocents along with the guilty? At the King’s command…”

 

Bloodraven tutted quite easily, “Innocents die in war all the time. You’ve seen it yourself.”

 

“By the gods I wish I hadn’t…”

 

“You have been hiding from these thoughts in the North for long enough. Think on them and put them to rest. You have three days to do so.”

 

Eddard corrected him, saying, “One. The day after the morrow, we ride west.”

 

“Stay three. That is my advice to you. Dark wings, dark words make their way to you… even now…”

  
And suddenly the greenseer’s words were replaced with the cawing of a crow that had reappeared on the back of the chair that the Great Bastard had sat in.

 

It turned out that some of the wagons needed three days for repairs to their axles and new wheels to be fitted on some of the older ones. On the third day, as the repaired wagons were being loaded, maester Cefin hurried out to Eddard to deliver him two letters which had come from quite tired ravens from King’s Landing. One was quite obviously from Robert, while the other was from Denys.

 

Robert’s missive was short and seemed as though it were penned in fury and with little care for any niceties.

 

_Ned,_

_Lord Lefford has broken the rebels. Get your bloody arse to the capital. We sail for war._

_Robert_

 

Denys’ missive elaborated the situation a little more, thankfully.

 

_To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Commander of Arms and Men, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North_

 

_Ned,_

_You must come to the capital with all haste. Pirates under the Tyroshi flag attacked your northern ships from White Harbor, and Robert is now swearing to pummel the Tyroshi into the sea with his warhammer. The Westerlands lords have since gathered themselves and are managing the rebels as I write this. You must come and help me talk some sense into Robert. We can’t afford to provoke all the Free Cities into all out war with us by declaring war on Tyrosh._

_Denys_

 

Ned’s thoughts however were caught on one thing, and one thing alone.

 

_Benjen!_


	64. Edmure IV

**EDMURE**  
  
Uncle Brynden’s orders were simple—they along with the small number of ships per the agreement with Lys, were to sail through the Lyseni waters in the Stepstones until they came to the island hideout where Euron Greyjoy had taken residence and during the night to storm the island and take it by surprise. The Lyseni by the crude agreement made with them before Planky Town had supplied them with banners depicting their naked love goddess—who looked like a Targaryen queen of old with her violet eyes and long flowing silver-gold hair which was long enough to have wrapped around the more naughty bits—upon a sunset colored field. Since the island that Greyjoy held possession of was under disputed claims by the Lyseni and Tyrosh—the sight of a few Lyseni ships traveling near, it was hoped, would not cause too much distraction. As they came within a day’s sail of the island, all of the Westerosi knights and squires were to stay below decks so as to not be seen by any passing ships or the spyglasses of the isle. For their ploy to work, they would have to seem a small fleet of Lyseni trading ships, and so everything remained calm and quiet.  
  
All the squires tended to their knights’ armor and weapons, which was easily taken care of for Ser Brynden by his many squires sharing the workload amongst them. The of course lead to rotations between them with Uncle Brynden lending out their services to other knights lacking a squire for the nonce. His Uncle especially took the time to ensure that Edmure’s services were given to hedge knights of all people.   
  
To which his Uncle said in response, when he heard Edmure’s grumbling, “Under the Mudds, House Tully was little better than hedge knights. Your father might get away with putting on airs being Hand of the King, but don’t you start doing so too!”  
  
When he had finished cleaning Ser Ernold the Slight’s armor—the fifth hedge knight he had taken on that day, Edmure collapsed into his hammock to at once to rest his aching hands and hide from his Uncle finding yet another hedge knight for him to assist. After he had settled himself in his hammock, Ser Perwyn and Hendry Bracken--Ser Perwyn had likely taken him on to keep him away from Brynden Blackwood for Uncle Brynden’s sake since the two made it a sport to argue constantly—came by and situated themselves rather close to Edmure, unawares of his presence.  
  
“Just think of how many women we’ll be able to get once we say that we helped bring down Euron Greyjoy!” proclaimed Hendry Bracken, excited about the small portion of their mission that had thus far been revealed to them by Uncle Brynden.  
  
“You think too much with your one head not the other. First we have to use one to live to see the end of this bloody war,” retorted Ser Perwyn rather sagely.  
  
“Like you don’t use the one head,” rounded the Bracken quite cockily.  
  
“I try to not make it my only discussion point,” countered a sly Ser Perwyn.  
  
“Still, saying we helped bring down Greyjoy—” began Hendry.  
  
“ _If_ we bring down Greyjoy” interjected Ser Perwyn.  
  
“If we bring down Greyjoy, it would be quite something to say.”  
  
Ser Perwyn countered, “And the whore who you boast that to if she is worth half the price you’ll pay for her, will ask if you need help satisfying her.”  
  
At this, Edmure couldn’t help but laugh, revealing himself to his two companions. Edmure then felt a pair of hands on each side of his hammock push down on the sides  
  
“And if it isn’t our stowaway lordling,” teased Hendry with a smirk.  
  
“Hiding from your duties?” charged Ser Perwyn with an almost unreadable face.  
  
Edmure felt himself bristle slightly before holding up his weathered hands and saying, “More like recovering from them. I cleaned five sets of armor; I’m entitled to a bit of rest.”  
  
“A less impressive feat given we’re at sea and the knights only have light armor, but tiresome nonetheless, I’ll grant you,” admitted Ser Perwyn, and he let the matter slide by ceasing to press down on his side of the hammock.  
  
“So what are you going to say to the whores in King’s Landing once we get back? I heard you were quite popular there. Are you going to call yourself the Kraken-slayer?” pressed Hendry with a smirk, as he picked up Perwyn’s armor back up again to clean it.  
  
Edmure was going to come up with a witty reply, if he could think of one… but none came. This is where Lycus always came in handy—on the flip of a coin he could come up with at least seven smart things to say before the coin hit the ground.  
  
“Or is that what you’re going to say to your she-kraken?” japed Hendry further.  
  
“ _My_ she-kraken?!”  
  
“Hendry,” warned Perwyn.  
  
For a moment Edmure imagined telling Asha that he had helped his uncle to slay Euron Greyjoy and for the briefest of moments he imagined her responding like any other girl might in a man’s dream… but then suddenly Edmure felt his blood run cold as he remembered that Euron was her uncle… her kin. What if she blamed him for helping to kill her kin? What if she hated him?  
  
“I think he’s gone silent on us,” said the Bracken squire.  
  
“Hendry,” said Perwyn with a knowing look, and Hendry Bracken sighed and took his leave.  
  
  
Perwyn shook his head and said almost half to himself, “My brother Olyvar begged me to take him as squire on this. I told him it was too dangerous and he was a bit young… now I think he would’ve been a bit more mature than that.”  
  
“Gods…what if she…” muttered Edmure trailing off as he realized he was speaking out loud instead of thinking internally.  
  
“Just realized it didn’t you?” asked Perwyn.  
  
“Just realized what?” asked Edmure defensively.  
  
“All of Ser Brynden’s squires saw the way you and Lady Greyjoy parted—don’t be such a fool.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean? Asha is my friend.”  
  
“And also your father’s hostage—don’t forget that.”  
  
“She’s not a hostage,” dismissed Edmure.  
  
“Your Uncle has been kind to her, no doubt, but don’t forget for one moment that she was dragged from her home, her family, and her people—people who we’re likely to fight before this war is ended if we do find Euron Greyjoy. So put any silly romantic notions you might have taken on out of your head right now.”  
  
Was this dread of rejection, love? Asha was a child, an undeveloped child who liked to dress like a boy and fight with throwing axes and knives… who had a clever mind and   
  
“Love is not for lords and lordlings—hell it isn’t even for fifteenth sons…” said Perwyn rather bitterly.  
  
“Perwyn?” asked Edmure, suddenly sensing that something was off about the steady rock of the group.  
  
“What’s wrong?” prodded Edmure after Perwyn had kept silent.  
  
“I deluded myself into thinking that since I was so far down the line of succession that I could have possibly have a choice of who I married. I had met a lady to my liking while we were young, we became close to one another, but my father thought her a better match for my elder half-brother—his full brother had already married her sister you see and the alliance had been agreed upon that when she came of age she’d marry like her elder sister had. She thought my elder brother a brute and she tried to protest and I thought that things could be changed. She was still marrying a Frey, I told him… but my father said ‘the choice will never yours boy until I and all your elder brothers die. You think you’re some uppity smallfolk reeve or merchant who can marry whom he pleases? You will marry whom I find for you and no one else’.” Perywn had imitated what was likely his Lord father’s voice—it sounded wheezy like an old dry bladder and pipes—but then Perwyn turned to look Edmure directly in the eye and said, “With you your father’s _only_ heir, your likelihood is even more impossible. Don’t fool yourself, Edmure—you aren’t doing her or you any favors. Put her out of your mind, as you likely will be out of hers after this.”  
  
Edmure didn’t know what to think or feel after Perwyn took his leave, seeming rather affected as he departed. One thing for sure it hadn’t helped his troubled thoughts and feelings over Asha’s possibly hating him—in fact it only made him feel worse.  
  
The sun had set when they were permitted again above decks—ready to board dingies to row to shore. In the moonlight the island from afar looked much like a tortoise shell long abandoned by its prior occupant. As such, the shell-like mountain was quite weathered and its rock face smoothed over from all the wind and rain it had withstood. Its top was very sparsely populated with a few trees scattered hither and yon. Cut into the one side of the mount was a large gaping cavern entrance. His uncle had said that the whole of Shell Step was a large cave with a second entrance high up on the far and steeper side of the island, as written about by Daemon Targaryen in his memoirs on winning his crown in the Narrow Sea.  
  
Some of their dingies were half-filled with lumber that had been brought, while others were filled with men ready for a fight. Edmure was told to climb into a dingy with the lumber along with his Uncle and the rest of his squires. Once they were launched, Uncle Brynden spoke more openly about his plan, that prior he’d just given small scraps and tidbits of. As his uncle spoke, he watched over half the dingies land knights at a rather secluded cove not far from the obvious main entrance to the cavern. Their dingy however along with the others half loaded with lumber was rowing around the island for its backside, where its slope was the steepest.  
  
Uncle Brynden had said as they rowed closer to the far side of the island, “Just like any rat, we have to flush Greyjoy out of his hole. Our job will be to start a fire at the second entrance and let the smoke send them scurrying into the swords of our own men.”  
  
  
They landed at a secluded spot along the beach of the isle right. In a few feet from where they made landing was a thick layer of bushes which sat at the foot of a steep slope of the mount. Nearby there appeared to be a narrow footpath which switched back and forth up the rock face. Somewhere up there was a second hidden entrance to the cave. With the rest of the squires, Edmure assisted his uncle and the few knights carrying the lumber up the mount. The higher they climbed the more quiet they became. The entrance was found by Lymond Goodbrook who had gone ahead to find it. Edmure could easily see why the second entrance was “hidden”, as the damned thing was barely large enough for a man to squeeze through, and seemed to be a series of zigs and zags through the rock to the back of the cave itself, Lymond said later on the second trip to grab more lumber. After they had delivered the wood and placed it in line, they along with the rest of the squires, saving Hendry Bracken for Perwyn and Tristan Ryger for Uncle Brynden were then told to return to the shore and guard the boats by his Uncle. The rest of the knights, including Ser Perwyn would be ready to help keep the fire burning and do battle should any surprises from pirates be met.  
  
Edmure wanted to object but the look in his uncle’s eyes indicated that he’d brook no complaints or arguments to the contrary. There would be no convincing him that to come any further would be a good thing. He and the other squires of his uncle were not alone in this task, as the two Sand snakes had joined their party in guarding the boats apparently at Obara’s insistence from what Edmure could hear of their heated whispers when the waves beating against the shore didn’t drown them out, upon returning to the shore.  
  
“So we stay back here with the greenboys!” snapped Obi.  
  
“You are a greenboy yourself, Obi. And our spears are far more deadly down here in the open than up there with the rock in our way. Great Uncle Lewyn—” began Obara before a wave drowned out the rest of her sentence.  
  
It wasn’t until the wave receded halfway through Obi’s reply that he caught the conversation once again, “ridiculous to make such a comparison! He led 10,000 Dornish spearmen to their death in the Kingswood when the Bloody Wolf trapped him… something which Dorne seems to have forgotten!” spat Obi.  
  
Edmure did not catch Obara’s reply, instead hearing once again only Obi’s response.  
  
“The more I think on Dornishmen, the more I think they’re a bunch of frightened women… cowering at the mention of a dog who gave them a little nip!”  
  
Edmure didn’t have to strain his ear over the sound of the waves to hear Obara’s response—he could quite clearly see the elder sister disarming her hot-headed little brother and pinning him on the flat of his back. Their grunts and screams though, were being heard over the waves, and that Edmure knew was dangerous to his uncle’s plan succeeding.  
  
“Edmure, we’re supposed to be watching the boats,” reminded Liam Mooton as he took Edmure’s elbow to stop him from approaching Obara and Obi.  
  
“They’re not going anywhere, and the rest of you are all here,” dismissed Edmure confidently as he shrugged Liam’s hand from his grasp and approached the two hissing snakes.  
  
Brother and sister hissed and yelled and wrestled with one another worse than Brynden and Hendry—the two rolling into the waves of the ocean hitting the shore. As he approached the two, Edmure picked up Obi’s discarded sear and when the opportunity arose, stuck the butt of the spear between the two bickering siblings’ faces. This stopped them immediately and two sets of enraged eyes locked on Edmure, who did his best to summon his own anger.  
  
“We need to be quiet! There will be time enough to bicker on the ship. Now is not the time.” Edmure stated in an insistent whisper.  
  
Obara seemed to recall herself and picked herself up at this—suddenly seeming to take note that she was now soaked from their sport. Obi however gave Edmure an odd look as though truly considering him for the first time. But before the matter could be resolved any further, Patrek came rushing over to Edmure from the rest of the squires.  
  
“There!” called out Patrek as he pointed up the mount. The appearance of something metallic shimmering in the moonlight did appear. Upon the general notice of this by the rest of the group Edmure heard swords being drawn overeagerly by Ronald and Hugo.  
  
Just then the sight of the shimmering metallic object far up the mount suddenly dropped and seemed to come much closer—quickly appearing to be a man in light armor—one of their own men or a pirate—they could not tell which. The sound of iron clanging against the rock as the person tumbled down the side of the mount echoed down to them over the waves, and with a crash the person landed in the bushes at the foot of the mount—effectively flattening them.  
  
The man made no further movements, and in that moment Brynden Blackwood moved closer, withdrawing his sword as he approached the man now obscured in shadows. Tension filled the air. Obi took advantage of this silence to pick himself up and take his own spear back from Edmure, who did not object, as all their attentions were drawn to the man laying motionless in the bushes. Edmure watched as Brynden prodded the man and then he heard half a laugh emerge from the Blackwood.  
  
“Hendry, get up!” called Brynden in a loud whisper as he shook the unconscious Bracken.  
  
Now recognizing the man as their fellow squire, Edmure felt his senses return to him and he, Lymond Goodbrook, and Liam Mooton hurried up alongside Brynden to investigate their fallen comrade. Hendry Bracken however did not respond to Brynden’s prodding, and increasingly seemed to become worried by the tone of his voice.  
  
“No… wake up Hendry! Wake up!” called Brynden.  
  
“Quiet!” urged Edmure in a harsh whisper as Liam pulled off Hendry’s damaged helm.  
  
“He’s alive, but he won’t be for long…” said Liam, pointing to a rather nasty head wound that Hendry had likely sustained falling down the cliff, from which blood and dirt had well mixed and a small part of the helm had lodged itself.  
  
“Gods… to die in such a way…” said Lymond with much pity.  
  
“If he wakes up he’ll be in a tremendous amount of pain before he dies. He might scream…” said Edmure.  
  
“We best see he doesn’t wake up then…” said Liam with a knowing look.  
  
“It will be an act of mercy…” added Lymond with a pained nod.  
  
It took Edmure a moment to realize just what Liam and Lymond were suggesting, feeling his stomach churn when he finally did.  
  
“What? No!” wailed Brynden as he held tightly to Hendry, putting his own body between them and the Bracken heir. “None of you are going to touch him! He’s going to live! He has to live…” proclaimed Brynden fiercely.  
  
Before the matter could be pursued any further, the sound of dirt and rock sliding could be heard from further up the mount, and they all turned to look up to see two figures sliding down the side of the mount from a much lower part of the path than Hendry had tumbled from. The pair of struggling figures seemed in control of their sliding—as much as two people could, as they went feet first and were caught in a headlock of sorts. Edmure heard the rest of the swords being drawn in that moment by the other squires, with several of the older ones rushing up to join them, ready to ambush the pair once they got to the ground. Once landing rather less violently than Hendry had in their own set of bushes, the struggling continued, and Edmure could make out that it was Perwyn and a pirate caught in a struggle, with the pirate having a sack upon his back. The pirate seemed to be dark haired from what little Edmure could see as he along with Liam and Lymond rushed to aide Ser Perwyn along with the other squires. Their attentions however must have been too distracted by all this action for the next moment pirates were seen rushing down the path—not a tremendous lot of them but enough to give battle to at least each squire who had rushed to Ser Perwyn’s aid. Edmure found himself defending blows from an especially long haired one with a scar across his face and an eye missing. The pirate’s lack of armor gave him agility and speed which Edmure found hard to combat, but not entirely difficult. He took the defensive for the moment, looking for a chance to see where the man left himself open, before seeing the perfect opportunity to strike a blow to his side. The pirate gurgled and Edmure dug deeper into his abdomen and up into his chest. The pirate fell, and Edmure turned to see who else needed his assistance. Obi was gutting another pirate who had a wooden shield. His spear had pierced the man’s shield, and Obi had stepped on the end of it and trapped the pirate from stepping back, disorienting him enough to pull a dagger and gut him like a fish. Obara fared well on her own as well, clearly stabbing another pirate in the gut.  
  
Lymond and Liam were caught in the midst of more even-handed battles, Liam especially having the chance to display his masterful sword technique. Marq however was in a bit of a quandary, having taken a few wounds and looking as though he wished he could fall over. Edmure charged to help his blond-haired friend, and together they took out Marq’s pirate.  
  
The pirates however were not fully routed until his Uncle Brynden and several of the knights returned from above to aide the squires. In the aftermath it was a victory, but one cut short by the discovery that the first pirate that had been caught in the struggle with Perwyn had taken advantage of the battle to steal a boat. Perwyn was found with a dagger in his throat near death, mumbling “A third… there was a third…”   
  
And then Perwyn went silent forevermore... Edmure felt a chill in that moment.  
  
 _Gods no... not Perwyn..._  
  
“My lord!” called out a knight as he picked something out of the bushes.  
  
“What is it?” barked his Uncle, but this question was very quickly answered at the sight of the object held by the knight, and Edmure turned to see an egg. It was scaly in appearance with blue and green waves upon it, and it look slick with moisture and slippery and wet to the touch. In fact the knight seemed to struggle keeping hold of the egg in his grasp.  
  
“Seven Hells…” replied his Uncle  
  
It was then that Brynden Blackwood wailed. He had recovered enough by this point from his participation in throwing off the pirates to wander back over to Hendry’s abandoned body, only now to apparently find that Hendry was dead. Liam and Lymond hobbled over to console the distraught Blackwood. His uncle then motioned for the egg to be put into a sack and for it to be taken back with them to the ship. As they returned to the boats they then found Patrek Mallister with one of his ears sliced off between a dead Ronald and severely bleeding Hugo from a wound to his side.   
  
“I’m sorry Ser… I failed you,” admitted Patrek as he knelt when Uncle Brynden approached the scene. Edmure along with his uncle was half in shock at what he saw.  
  
“He killed Ronald and took a boat…” croaked Patrek  
  
“Who?” asked Edmure’s uncle.  
  
“Greyjoy…” said Patrek.


	65. Elia IV

**ELIA**  
  
There were aspects that she loved about Doran. His attention to detail, generous heart, his deep wisdom and understanding was surpassed by none, and all of this reminded her of their mother. His gift of the schematics for a wheeled chair was surely blessed by the Smith himself for the mobility with which she now had available to her. Upon having it built she had spent many hours in her chambers practicing maneuvering it and learning her limits within it. Soon after she felt herself capable of maneuvering as much as she could without the assistance of a servant was about the time Lord Tully began to inquire more fervently as to the potential betrothal alliance between Dorne and the Riverlands.  
  
From coming to know the man, Elia was certain of it that Lord Hoster was going to work himself into an early grave if he kept this kind of pace and activity up. Since they had first begun to work together to arrange for the possible betrothal between his son and her niece—a niece she had not seen in many years, and now felt pained at not having the opportunity, seeing as she was old enough to be betrothed—Hoster had suffered one blow after another. At first his son and heir disappeared from King’s Landing completely. That this disappearance coincided with the departure of his uncle’s ship for its private mission to take out Greyjoy and the other pirate heads, neither Hoster nor Elia took for coincidence.  
  
“That boy is going to be the death of me!” proclaimed the quickly greying Old Trout—his hair nearly equal parts red and grey.  
  
“He wants me to die—there can be no other explanation. He knows that I expressly forbid him from going to this little war and what does he do? He goes and does it anyway!”  
  
“Your son, if I may say so is but a young man still—like my little brother was until he took up his post on the small council. They are ruled more by their passions and whims rather than their common sense.”  
  
Lord Tully snorted at this but then seemed to recall himself as he apologized, “Forgive me for laughing, my Princess, it was just that Min… well it was inappropriate of me.”  
  
Elia smirked before saying, “Considering the stress you are under, perhaps I should make a few more japes. You northerners often accuse the Dornish of being overly dramatic, and while in some cases that might be… justified, in others it is a gross exaggeration. All people have passionate types amongst them, your family a decent concentration of them.”  
  
Hoster sighed and said, “Aye… if it isn’t my blackfish of a brother it’s my foolhardy son… Gods preserve him.” Worry etched itself onto his face in that moment, like a stonemason had carved fine lines across his face.  
  
“If he is with your brother, surely he wouldn’t let any harm come to him,” assured Elia  
  
The second time Elia found herself dealing with Lord Tully’s fears came when a raven from Riverrun interrupted their discussion over Doran’s tentative reply of interest, accompanied by his typical list of reservations. Doran was always one to focus on how things might go wrong, leading him to be overly cautious about most things. It was utterly irritating, but Hoster seemed to respond well to it—as if he understood Doran better from such caution. Then came the servant with the other raven’s letter.  
  
“Thank you, Elmo,” said Lord Tully as he broke the half red and half blue fish seal of Riverrun.  
  
The boy had only time to take a low bow, and begin to take his leave before Lord Tully’s eyes grew wide and he shouted back to his young page, “Elmo! Go and fetch Grand Maester Gormon, this instant!”  
  
The boy seemed flustered and froze upon the sight of his liege’s frantic reaction to whatever news was held in the letter.  
  
“Have you gone deaf?!” questioned Lord Tully with much bluster.  
  
The page boy could only stammer in response, so Elia rolled her chair between the two men—drawn as they were at a standstill.  
  
“Fetch the grand maester lad, I’ll see to Lord Tully,” she said firmly, as she directed her chair to move from in front of the desk towards its side.  
  
The boy demurred and used her proper title as he suddenly recovered himself and took his leave of the room. By that point Elia had positioned her chair so that she sat next to him. He was half lost to himself in thought when she disturbed him.with the light touch of her hand upon his arm.  
  
“Tell me, my lord, what news could be in such a letter to have been the cause of so much trouble?” asked Elia knowingly, figuring it had something to deal with his profligate son once again.  
  
“I knew I should have brought the girl to King’s Landing when I brought Edmure—but Gods help me I couldn’t stand to look upon the girl’s face any longer than I had to.”  
  
“What girl?” proded Elia.  
  
“The Greyjoy girl! She’s vanished from Riverrun, soon after the majority of men had left the castle. My goodsister writes to say that she woke up after the forces she sent to the Westerlands had departed to find that squid missing. She’s sent out riders searching for the girl, but none have yet returned with any knowledge of her whereabouts. Gods, how could we have been so blind?! Euron Greyjoy must have found contacts amongst the deposed Ironborn and—Winterfell! I must send a letter to Winterfell! We might have lost the girl, but we still have the boy!”  
  
“Breathe, my lord, breathe—I can hardly keep up with what you’re saying,” interjected Elia.  
  
Lord Tully upon her advice took two deep breaths before continuing, “Why didn’t I see it before?! Distract us with pirates all this while on our eastern shores while they make their moves from the west, recover their heirs and then raid as they please. Robert dismissed several Ironborn lords at the end of the last war. He was going to kill them until Lord Arryn… damn it all! This is the result of the mother’s mercy for squids!”  
  
“My lord hand, you’re jumping to conclusions without first learning any of the facts. Let me send for my brother so we might confirm or deny some of these thoughts. If you send any of these wild speculations out by raven” implored Elia.  
  
Lord Tully nodded and Elia wheeled her chair to the door, opened it and called for a servant to fetch her brother as quickly as he could. Grandmaester Gormon appeared first though—unsurprisingly.  
  
Keeping strictly to the facts, Lord Tully implored that the western navies at the Arbor and the small fleet at Seaguard be ready for possible engagement in the west as soon as possible, other smaller houses with ships of their own up and down the Western coast were also encouraged to be at the ready. He then also dictated for a letter to be sent to Winterfell, though with that one, Elia helped him word it:  
  
 _To her grace, Queen Lyanna Baratheon, Lady of Cracklaw Point, and Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell_  
  
 _Far be it from me to order you on your own affairs, your grace, but I would highly recommend that upon receipt of this missive, that the young Lord Theon Greyjoy be guarded at all hours of the day and night under lock and key for the duration of your grace’s stay at your lord brother’s seat. His sister has vanished from Riverrun under suspicious circumstances, and I suspect that attempts are likely underway to do the same for Lord Theon in Winterfell. Trust no one you haven’t known since childhood if you must, your grace. Cat, I implore you to keep the young lord within Winterfell at any cost, the peace of our coasts likely depends upon your actions._  
  
 _Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, Hand of the King, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands_  
  
Elia had chosen to leave out much of Lord Tully’s colorful wordings, for the sake of his daughter, and was ready to hand over three sealed copies of the same letter to Grand Maester Gormon as Lord Tully argued over the number of ravens that would need to be sent to ensure the arrival of all these messages in winter.  
  
Once the Grand Maester had departed, Lord Tully took Elia by the hand and rather warmly said “You are a great lady, my Princess, and one who is quite resourceful in a crisis.”  
  
Elia was surprised by the show of affection from Lord Tully, but decided not to draw attention to it.  
  
“I was the one who had to keep Oberyn’s temper in check when he was a boy. Keeping him from destroying things around the palace was a task my mother gave me at a young age—one could say that dealing with little crises is a specialty of mine.”  
  
It was not long after that that Hoster Tully asked for her to visit more frequently, discussing other matters of the kingdom than the possibility of a betrothal between their two families. When word of the Archon of Tyrosh’s gamble by sailing into Blackwater Bay was foiled by a bunch of Northern sailors, Hoster even invited her to attend the Small Council—arguing that as the mother to the future Queen of Westeros, she should have been included on these matters long ago.  
  
The Stag King was enraged, to say the least, scaring his Trout and Falcon members into worried panics. Oberyn and the King’s brother were less impressed by his display of rage, or at least attempted to seem that way. Lord Qarlton was busy going over his ledgers, obviously preparing an economic argument against every move the King was proposing. But to Elia, the King’s rage seemed less about anger or concern for his people, and more of that of a small child throwing a temper tantrum, in her opinion at least.  
  
“I’ve sent a raven to Lord Stark ordering him to make for the capital at once! When he arrives, I intend to sail to Tyrosh and I’ll pummel its walls back into the sea with my own warhammer if I have to! The singers will be singing of how there used to be a city named Tyrosh!” roared King Robert as he paced at the head of the weirwood table around which his present council and Elia had gathered.  
  
“And what, pray tell, your grace would you do when Lys, Myr, Pentos and mayhaps even Braavos and Volantis set sail to take vengeance on a King who has just destroyed one of their sister cities?” challenged Elia gently but firmly.  
  
Hoster looked askance at her and shook his head as if to warn her to stop, but Elia ignored him for the nonce.  
  
“I’ll do the same to each of them if I have to! With the Bloody Wolf at my side, we’ll smash ‘em all to pieces!” laughed the King as if he hadn’t heard anything so agreeable in ages.  
  
Upon hearing the other name of Lord Stark her mind recalled a singer she had dismissed from Rhaenys’ presence.  
  
 _Come and hear a tale of Bloody Wolves and Storm Kings, of wicked fools and their fire rings…_  
  
Aye that’s how the singer’s song had begun. Clearly the King thought he still lived in a song.  
  
“We could face the power of one of the Free Cities—but the full might of them all at once?” questioned Lord Arryn.  
  
“They’ll never combine their efforts! There’s too much history of bad blood between ‘em,” dismissed Robert with a wave of his hand.  
  
“Aye, but if they had one common enemy, who’s shown himself incapable of diplomacy?” prodded Elia cautiously.  
  
The stormy stag scoffed, “Diplomacy! What have we ever gotten from diplomacy?”  
  
 _Peace for the Seven Kingdoms? I could have fled to the Free Cities instead of choosing to come here under your “protection”._  
  
“Without trade from the Free Cities, the economies of our cities would utterly collapse,” piped in Lord Chelsted.  
  
“And then you’d have a larger revolt than what is being put down in the Westerlands,” added Hoster.  
  
“And if I do nothing, all the seven bloody kingdoms will be in revolt! A King can’t simply let such an attack on his people. If he can’t defend his waters from pirates under the Tyroshi banner, then what good is he!” boomed Robert as he slammed his fist against the weirwood table, rattling everything upon it and spilling his glass of wine. A cupbearer came and cleaned up the mess.  
  
“But you wouldn’t be doing nothing; your grace. You can still go to war with Tyrosh,” said Elia, with many an eye at the table looking at her warily as she spoke. Oberyn specifically raised an eyebrow as he often did when surprised by something.  
  
“Go on,” bellowed the King, eying her up suspiciously.  
  
“Gather allies amongst some of the Free Cities. Lys and Myr have resented Tyrosh’s arrogance since the last war they fought, haven’t they brother?” queried Elia, suddenly turning to him to ask the question.  
  
“Aye, when I was in Essos, Tyrosh won the latest war over the disputed lands and redrew the borders in their favor. Neither Lys nor Myr are particularly happy with those borders,” admitted Oberyn with a slow nod of his head.  
  
“Make treaty with them, your grace. Say that you’ll keep Tyrosh busy while they can feast themselves on Tyrosh’s claims in the disputed lands,” suggested Elia.  
  
Robert glared at Elia before snorting and admitting, “Very well.”  
  
“But what of Braavos, Pentos and Volantis?” reminded Lord Chelsted.  
  
Oberyn cooly stated, “Tell the Braavosi that some of our people have been enslaved by these pirates—it is the truth. Sell the war to them that it will be one against slavery.”  
  
“What! Some of my people have been sold into slavery and I wasn’t told about it!” roared the King with a face the color of a Targaryen dragon on their banner.  
  
Oberyn added, “I told your grace about it at the time that that has been the fate of those Northerners taken captive by Euron Greyjoy. I believe you were quite concerned about the birth of Prince Durran at the time…”  
  
The King then seemed to recall the mentioning of it, and turning even redder in the face pounded both fists on the table as he declared, “I’ll flatten that godsforesaken city! There won’t be an island left to rebuild the damn thing!”  
  
“That still leaves Pentos and Volantis,” chimed Lord Chelsted.  
  
“Volantis tried to conquer Tyrosh didn’t it?” asked the King’s brother.  
  
“What are you saying? That after we destroy Tyrosh we offer up the ruins we make of it to Volantis?!”  
  
“Not at all, your grace, but they might see the humbling of such a wild sister as something in their favor, if I understand Lord Baratheon’s mind that is,” interjected Elia.  
  
Stannis Baratheon neither confirmed nor denied her interpretation of his words, for the King interrupted him before he could say anything.  
  
“I suppose so, and as for Pentos, they can rot in the Seven Hells for all I care!” proclaimed Robert.  
  
“They should still be sought after for a possible alliance of sorts, your grace. After all, when Volantis attempted to conquer Tyrosh all those years ago, it was Pentos who came to her aid. We should attempt to keep the wheel of history from turning round once again, if we can,” suggested Elia.  
  
“This is all very well and good, but how long will this take?” asked Robert.  
  
“Some time, your grace. Someone would have to meet with the ambassadors from each of the Free Cities and messages would have to be sent across the Narrow Sea… it could take many moons, your grace,” stated Lord Arryn honestly.  
  
“And what do my people see in the meanwhile? A King who allows such blatant acts of war to go unchallenged!” boomed the King.  
  
“Then do something that both hurts the Tyroshi and shows your intentions as a King to not tolerate such attacks. Throw out all the Tyroshi traders and merchants from our ports and seize all their goods and assets,” interjected Lord Chelsted.  
  
“Won’t that hurt your precious trade?” mocked Oberyn.  
  
“A bit, aye, but it’ll hurt Tyrosh even more. And with each alliance we forge we should all ban together in throwing Tyroshi merchants from our shores, until they have few left to trade with, crippling them. Their entire economy is based around trade, without it they starve,” concluded Lord Chelsted quite slyly. Elia thought she could sense something more at work here than just concern for the Kingdom, but she let it pass for the nonce. She could speak with Oberyn about it later.  
  
“Ban a bunch of bloody traders? That’s the response you’d have me make?” thundered the King with an incredulous glare at Lord Chelsted.  
  
“That would make those walls of theirs quite easy to ‘pummel’ into the sea, your grace,” clarified Stannis Baratheon grimly.  
  
There was a moment of silence from the king as he seemed to absorb this fact, but when he seemed to have grasped it completely, a large grin overtook his face.  
  
“Brilliant! Bloody brilliant!” proclaimed the stag king with a peel of laughter. As he laughed, looks across the table were exchanged, that Elia read as relief.  
  
“Lord Tully, have a proclamation written up and sent to every noble house in Westeros. Any Tyroshi merchant or citizen still within any of the Seven Kingdoms is to be expelled. Any lord who does business with them will be committing treason. And any of those Tyroshi devils caught within our borders by the end of… say a fortnight or so is to be killed on sight,” stated the King darkly.  
  
It was in that instant that Elia thought she heard echoing in the silence that filled the room Aerys’ cackling.


	66. Theon

**THEON**

 

It was completely and utterly boring in his chambers. Due to the winter snows becoming so deep and the winds rattling so hard, they all had to stay indoors for many more hours of the day. Theon, who had at first shivered at the cold when winter had set in, now found himself slightly more used to it, though he didn’t go far from his fire because of that. A few hours each day the other children were permitted to play outside, but Theon could only watch from his window. The Queen and Lady Stark had come to him one night and told him that for a little while he’d have guards at his door and following him around the keep at all times. They said that bad men had taken his sister from Riverrun, and now they wanted to do the same to him. One of these guards assigned to him was a man by the name of Harwin who liked to dress in a greasy sheepskin jerkin and trousers. He was a young man, only just having grown his beard out fully, but he followed him along the passages all the same. Sword practice and Maester Luwin’s lessons now took place inside the Great Keep, in one of the large unused rooms. When the snow had fallen heavily sword practice had already moved indoors of course so that wasn’t much of a change, but Maester Luwin’s lessons moving from the Maester’s Tower to the Great Keep was a change, especially now that Robb, Theon, Den, Prince Durran and Rickon all joined the lessons leaving Theon and Raynald to have to read books more independently as the Maester gave far more attention to the crown Prince and the future heir of Winterfell. 

 

In addition to these changes, Theon received extra lessons after the others had departed in ravenlore from Maester Luwin, since Loron, the raven hatchling that he had found before Lord Stark took the weirwood seeds, refused to be parted from him—pecking Maester Luwin until he set him down back near a protesting Theon. Theon liked taking care of Loron--that was a Greyjoy name said Maester Luwin, of a great man of his house who’d healed ties with the Riverlands after the conquest—for the bird was now a fully grown raven but he had a beak and talons too large for his body which made his flying rather awkward—though he could still do it Theon was proud to note to anyone who noted the inconvenient size of Loron's beak. Lady Stark even had the smith forge a special iron cage for Theon to keep Loron in so that he wouldn’t make a mess of Theon’s chambers.

 

Having guards follow him everywhere made sneaking into the dark crevices and playing pranks with Raynald on Den, Robb, Jon, and Jeyne much harder—but all the more worth it when he managed to pull off the trick. Unfortunately the three boys and Jeyne had realized his restrictions were to the Great Keep and so they took their games elsewhere in the castle, sometimes playing out in the courtyard, mocking him no doubt as they played in the snow. Rickon and his cousin Prince Durran were likewise bustling about and sneaking about the castle wherever they went, upsetting the servants wherever they went.

 

What was so nice about snow anyway? It was cold and it covered everything making everything more difficult. Besides, even if they did have fun in it they would still be freezing cold and drenched when they came back inside--and no one liked that. At least that's what he told himself as he stared out and watched the others play in it. In Theon’s opinion there was nothing worse than snow—especially the deep snows that the North got that sometimes Robb, Jon and Den seemed to jump into and disappear under before popping up to surprise the other two or even Jeyne who squealed so loudly he could faintly hear her voice echo from his window, especially when Rickon and Prince Durran chased after her with snowballs.

 

_So what! I could have done that much better._

 

Some days, when it hadn’t snowed so much, Robetta Glover came with her mother to visit Winterfell, and Jeyne and Robetta would plot against the three boys, with Den obviously not as enthusiastic in throwing snowballs back at the girls. It was on the days that Robetta didn’t visit Winterfell that Raynald often chose to go outside with his sister who begged his assistance against the other boys. Theon didn’t begrudge Raynald this, for he often tried to spend what other time he could that they weren’t in lessons together in his chambers. He only wished he could remember doing similar things with his own sister Asha. He vaguely recalled swimming in the sea with her and running across a greyish-white sandy beach, but it was so foggy a memory it almost seemed like another life led by another Theon Greyjoy.

 

Thinking on the men who had taken her made him angry—very angry. Why would they want to take her? He’d make them pay… he’d make them pay the Iron price—yeah. He’d heard his father talk about the Iron price once—at least he thought it was his father. He couldn’t remember his father at all besides a man’s voice saying that the Iron price had to be paid. Whatever it was he’d make those men who took her pay it, he’d swear it before the weirwood if he had to, but he would see it through.

 

“Such misplaced anger,” said a voice that Theon recognized as “the raven”. Ever since he had eaten those weirwood seeds he’d been able to hear and see “the raven”—who appeared to be an old man with pure white hair, one red eye, and a red splotch on his wrinkled old skin in the shape of a raven. He wore all black when he appeared before Theon—though sometimes Jon or Raynald would say he appeared a little differently to them. Right now he sat rather comfortably in the other chair across the small table from Theon.

 

He glared at “the raven”, sometimes if he didn’t say anything the old man would just disappear, and at the moment as he had Loron peck a few kernels of dried corn from his hand that’s what he wanted “the raven” to do right now.

 

“Staying angry won’t do anything about your sister’s predicament,” prodded “the raven”.

 

“What do you know about Asha?” asked Theon suspiciously.

 

"The raven" spoke ominously, “I can see where she is and just what is happening to her.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” dismissed Theon automatically, though he secretly hoped it was the truth.

 

“Odd thing to say considering you’re speaking to someone who isn’t even in your room but many miles away from you,” countered “the raven”.

 

“Fine then, show me. If you can see my sister, surely you could show me.”

 

“The raven” grew silent for a moment before his mouth twisted up at the corner and said, “I can show you a little bit, but not very much… your mind is hardly open enough to see much for very long. Mayhaps though I should wait until your mind is more open and then—”

 

“Enough talking and just do it already!” complained Theon.

 

“All right, if you insist,” said “the raven” with a smirk.

 

_The next moment Theon felt something that he hadn’t felt for a long time as he felt himself being buried underneath a soft blanket as his chambers faded from his view. And then he was looking down from a tree to see a figue Theon first took to be a boy, but then he recognized as his sister in leathers and trousers. Asha was kneeling in the grass with a rock in he hand hammering in a stake by a pavilion. Looming over her was a boy—nearly a man grown by Theon’s account._

_The boy moved to punch Asha, but she ducked just at the right moment. Then the boy’s other arm scooped her by the waist and he then brought his punching arm back around her neck and clamped tightly on it--knocking the air out of her. Frantically Theon watched as she gasped for breath._

_Theon felt his anger boil._

_"What, no wrestling either? Piss poor squire you are!" prodded Martyn._

_Desperate for air, she clawed at his arm, but it only caused him to squeeze tighter around her body—she struggled for breath for a bit before she chomped down and bit the boy's arm as hard as she could._

_A scream from the boy filled Theon’s ears the next moment she had fallen to her knees panting in the dying grass and fallen leaves. As she took great deep breaths Theon saw red spittle droplets splatter against the ground. The scream did not end, and she continued to pant for breath--something was still choking the air out of her and making it difficult to breath._

_“ASHA!” he called out to his sister but she didn’t seem to hear him. He wanted to go to her, he had to do something, she couldn’t breathe!_

_She fainted and then Theon found himself once again in his chambers, but “the raven” was gone._

 

“No! Asha! ASHA!” he called out as the vision ended, and his cries turned into tears. Loron was flying about the room squaking incredibly loudly.

 

In the next moment his chambers were disturbed by Harwin and his companion as they rushed in, ready to fight off any men who wished to take him like they had Asha. When they realized that there wasn’t any person to fight Harwin turned his attention to Theon.

 

“Calm down, milord,” urged Harwin who had taken Theon up into his arms into a hug. Theon fought this at first, he wasn’t some baby like Robb’s little brothers and cousins—he was a Greyjoy, a Kraken, a Lord in his own right! And his sister was in trouble. He tried to wriggle free from Harwin as the other guard attempted to catch Loron to put him back in his cage, but it was no use as the older man hugged him, Theon felt tears stream down his face as he saw in his mind’s eyes his sister fainting once again into the grass and him powerless to do anything.

 

“What upset you milord?” asked the greasy northerner.

 

“They’re hurting my sister… she—she’s going to die!” admitted Theon through his tears. His brave sister who had written him about their family and the pride he should feel at being descended from the Grey King was dying. He’d never really written much to her in response and now she was going to die and he was never going to see her ever again.

 

“I doubt that little lad. Why don’t you take a nap… you look rather tired.”

 

“I’m not a baby!” protested Theon.

 

“I didn’t say you were, milord, but a nap might be just the thing to learn the truth ‘bout your sister. Old Nan says dreams are where the gods show us the truth,” urged Harwin as he set Theon down upon his bed.

 

Theon wanted to believe that, he wanted it desperately—to know the truth… aye, he’d go to sleep for that. Loron was returned to his cage as Theon was laid down on his bed and he was tucked in under his furs. Theon buried his face in his pillow as Harwin and the other guard left his room and he tried most desperately to fall asleep, but it never happened. All he could see when he closed his eyes was Asha collapsing to the ground and looking dead.

 

It was after Theon had thrown off his furs in dissatisfaction that he couldn’t fall asleep that then “the Raven” reappeared, this time sitting at the foot of Theon’s bed.

 

“She’s not dead, is she?” asked Theon in a half-frightened voice.

 

“The raven” admitted, “No, she isn’t.”

 

Instantly Theon felt a wave of relief wash over him as he heard those words.

 

_Asha is alive… she’s alive!_

 

“The raven”, as if hearing his thoughts countered, “But she is in trouble nonetheless. Surely you could see that much.”

 

“Aye… can’t you do something to help her?” implored Theon as he sat up.

 

“I cannot… but you,” stated “the raven” with an odd look in his eye.

 

“W—what can I do?” asked Theon.

 

“Awaken what few drops of First Men’s blood you have in you. Once you do, you will be able to help your sister and your people,” said “the raven”.

 

“H-how do I do that?” questioned Theon, confused but willing to do anything to help Asha.

 

“The raven” smiled oddly and when he spoke his voice became low and soothing, as he spoke he felt an odd sensation overtake him, “Dream. Dream that you’re perched in a cage… just waiting for someone to open the door…”

 

Theon felt his eyelids grow heavy and as though he were falling. As he fell the world around him grow distant. He dreamed a short dream of a large iron cage in a man-cave where a man-child lay asleep on a bed. He craved for more corn. But at soon as the dream came clear, did it fade from his mind.


	67. Tyrion III

**TYRION**

 

He had been recognized almost immediately by Ser Lymond Vikary, the man swearing allegiance to him at the worst of all times—in the midst of the dispersing crowd of smallfolk and a renewed volley of arrows from Lannisport’s walls. Then the man had suggested an even more foolish idea than his first action—that of returning to Casterly Rock immediately as he was now. Tyrion couldn’t go back to Casterly Rock—not without protection. Someone had caused Ser Preston to abandon him to the smallfolk mob—likely thinking that he’d be killed. To have such a man as a captain of the guards at the Rock told Tyrion that someone wanted him dead or at the very least out of the way. Thus going back as he was now, with only two squires and a maimed knight to his name would be an adventure in suicide. Poor Eurig had been kept separate from him amongst the smallfolk—he feared for the worst for the only squire who had fought to do something for him amongst those mad starving fools, but there was little he could do in his position now. After the idea of going immediately to Casterly Rock had been shot down—Ser Lymond affronted to believe that his Uncle Stafford’s nephew could be plotted against—and instead they discussed the possibilities of returning to the camp of knights that Lord Lefford had congregated. The only problem with that option being the dispersing bands of smallfolk—some of whom had taken to looting the corpses of fallen knights and taking knives to the dead horses for their meat. The sight was disgusting to see, but he understood—oh gods did he understand their desperation. He felt his own gut quiver and grumble at the sight of the greasy horseflesh the smallfolk stuffed into their mouths raw, tearing at the meat like a dog might. It took ever ounce of self-restraint within him to keep from joining the smallfolk.

 

“If we’re to move Ser, we best be doing it now,” said the elder of the two squires—the other one was sulky and dressed as a smallfolk—though he recognized the lad as the slick handed knife thrower who had sneaked into the crowd and killed his captor and inadvertently given him a knife to cut his bonds and escape.

 

_It’s always the quiet ones which are hiding the most interesting secrets, and I owe my freedom to him._

 

His freedom, it’s why he had run after the lad in the end. A Lannister always pays his debts it is said—and he’d pay that debt to the squire somehow… if he ever could get back into the Rock without having to fear for his life.

 

The scavengers were slowly closing in on them—though they were still a distance off.

 

“You need to take off your armor,” stated the quiet squire, having recovered from passing out.

 

“Whatever for?!” protested Ser Lymond with an infuriated grunt as he tried but failed to stand.

 

“You’ll loose your arm and your leg if you don’t,” pointed out the quiet squire.

 

At this Ser Lymond fell back onto his rear with a great clatter of his armor.

 

“Well don’t just sit there stating the obvious, get my armor off!” huffed Ser Lymond.

 

“Try and yell a little louder next time, Ser, I don’t think the scavengers heard you well enough,” replied Tyrion before he was aware of the words leaving his mouth.

 

Ser Lymond’s eyes bulged for a moment before seemed to recall to whom he was speaking and he lowered them and his voice and mumbled, “Of course, my lord.”

 

_I mustn’t let my tongue get away from me. This man is my only chance at getting out of this hellhole._

 

But as the hours passed and Tyrion remained in Ser Lymond’s presence, Tyrion found his self-restraint harder and harder to maintain. After abandoning what armor Ser Lymond could take off—his wounded left arm had been nearly impossible due to the swelling, and Tyrion could tell by the nasty purple color of Ser Lymond’s fingers that there was something rather wrong with the man’s arm.

 

_He’ll likely lose it._

 

Ser Lymond had a pronounced limp which kept him slow enough that Tyrion’s regular strides were enough to keep pace with him. The two squires were at the front and rear of their little party, ensuring that they were to make it to Lord Lefford’s encampment. It took them far longer to reach where the squires recalled it being though, due to their pace, and by nightfall they arrived to a nearly empty hill, with the pavilions of the knights who had died in the trench trap dug for them left abandoned upon this hill.

 

“They moved camp…” stated Ser Lymond amazedly.

 

“Why in the name of the Warrior would they do this?!” shouted the elder squire into gathering darkness which was surrounding them.

 

“It makes sense Gwydion. A large swath of your host is taken out by traps you weren’t prepared for your enemy having. A commander might begin to wonder what else such a force might be capable of doing,” justified Ser Lymond haggardly.

 

In all of this arguing Tyrion noticed the youngest squire break off from their group and make his way through the grove of abandoned pavilions for a black one with two snakes entwined with one another. A Riverlands house, if Tyrion remembered properly—House Paege, I believe. Yes, House Paege, sworn to Riverrun, but had recently married two daughters to some of old Lord Walder’s numerous offspring. What was this squire doing rifling through

 

Tyrion followed the squire, simply out of curiosity and watched as the squire emerged with a Paege cloak tied around his shoulders.

 

He did not notice Tyrion as he passed him, prompting Tyrion to call out, “Playing at being Ironborn, squire?”

 

At this the squire froze where he stood.

 

“It may have been left behind, but it doesn’t mean we should pilfer the fallen’s belongings,” stated Tyrion

 

“If we don’t the smallfolk will, and I would rather Ser Halmon’s cloak was not used by them. Besides, I’ll never be a knight,” grunted the squire.

 

“You were Ser Halmon’s squire then?” asked Tyrion.

 

The squire acknowledged, “Aye… and now he’s dead.”

 

“He must not have been a great knight then,” commented Tyrion, even though he knew it was rather unkind.

 

The young squire glared at Tyrion with his dark—nearly black—eyes. Mayhaps the boy was a Blackwood… aye they were mostly a family who were black of hair and eye. The boy did not say anything else, simply turning and joining Ser Lymond and Gwydion who had gathered themselves around a firepit next to a tent with the arms of House Vikary upon it. Gwydion was attempting now to light a fire, and once a blaze had been lit, he could see more clearly that some of the tents, Ser Lymond’s own included, had been pilfered already.

 

“Are there no true knights left anymore?” questioned Ser Lymond forlornly as he rifled through some of his scattered belongings seated on a rock by the small but burning fire. Specifically looking at a gauntlet that would have once fit his swollen and purple hand.

 

“Were there ever any to begin with?” asked Tyrion bitterly, the image of a knight clad in green and white armor upon a horse turning tail coming unbidden to his mind.

 

Ser Lymond cringed as he then dropped the old gauntlet down beside him and said, “For shame, my lord, for shame! Your Uncle was a true knight.”

 

“Mayhaps that’s why he was so poor a lord, then.”

 

There it was, his tongue had gotten away from him again.

 

But instead of arguing the point, the knight only grunted clutched his wounded arm further, whimpered like a pup might and said “Mayhaps”.

 

It was then that Gwydion returned having caught some small game for them to eat. Tyrion was ravenous at this point and nearly jumped up to grab the rabbit from him to eat it raw. But he waited as the Gwydion and the other squire skinned them and put them on roasting sticks that had been carved. Then as that occurred two fat sticks that were split into a prong and cut off just after the prong started were taken and driven into either side of the campfire and the rabbits were placed side by side on their skewers over the fire to cook.

 

Tyrion stared as the rabbit flesh cooked, his stomach growling in complete hunger and his mouth dripping with an excess of spittle. He almost hardly paid any attention to what the conversation turned to… almost.

 

“We should track them on the morrow and return. They can’t be too far,” suggested Ser Lymond.

 

His squire countered, “But would we make it in time for you, Ser? You need a maester not a field healer. We are not too far from Boarshead Hall... if we hurry we could--”

 

The knight shook his head, “No! I must see Lord Tyrion here to safety.”

 

“At the expense of your life, Ser?” questioned Gwydion.

 

“If it comes to that, aye,” admitted Ser Lymond gruffly.

 

“While that is a noble thing to say, Ser, but I’d rather a soft warm bed and a full belly to go with it than the unsullied life of a warrior’s camp any day,” interjected Tyrion.

 

_And I can send a raven to Jaime from a lord’s castle… Jaime would help me get the Rock back…_

 

Ser Lymond grunted as he moved his lame leg, it apparently having gone slightly stiff on him, as he conceded, “As you wish, my lord… then for Boarshead we’ll go.”

 

The rabbit was sinewy and tough, but it still tasted ever so savory and sweet to him.

 

The cots in all the tents had been long since taken by the warriors or their squired who had since left. So sleeping besides the campfire as one man stood watch was done. They were each to take turns—Ser Lymond took the first, who then would wake Gwydion, then the other squire whose name Tyrion learned was Willem, and then finally it would be Tyrion’s turn to watch them until dawn. With that agreed amongst them, they all went to sleep save Ser Lymond huddled next to the campfire for warmth. When Tyrion found himself being shaken awake, his first instinct was to scream—he felt hands, many hands upon him, he heard heckling and the light of the sun was crowded out by the crowd of smallfolk that had surrounded him. And then in the next instant he was by a campfire, hearing the echoes of his yells with Willem the squire’s hand upon him. His breaths were rapid and his eyes darted about wildly, wondering for an instant in his confused sleep deprived mind where the crowd had vanished to before remembering that he had escaped. He was free, and Willem was the reason why.

 

Darkness still hung about them, the fire seeming to have been taken care of while he slept. Near the fire he saw two other sleeping forms, Ser Lymond and Gwydion—Gwydion jostling about—likely in response to Tyrion’s yell, but otherwise failing to wake completely. Ser Lymond lightly snored. Willem was staring at him.

 

“Are you all right?” asked the young squire. In that instant Tyrion was once again reminded of poor Eurig.

 

_Gods preserve that boy. He tried his best to keep me safe._

 

“I’m here… thank the Seven I’m truly here,” he said, not having meant to have spoken any of it aloud, but still having done so.

 

“You’re alive for now. Only the gods know what tomorrow shall bring,” grunted Willem in response.

 

“Of course but until this morning with your knife trick, I would hardly call what I had been doing as living. Not even a dwarf is fit to live the life of a performing monkey,” quipped Tyrion, hoping to earn a smile and help him forget Eurig’s unknown fate for the moment.

 

But Willem was as solemn as a stone.

 

“I’ve upset you,” noted Tyrion.

 

“How astute,” muttered Willem who then after a short silence said, “It was not a trick.”

 

“I didn’t mean to say you were dishonorable,” confused as to why the squire would take such a negative reaction to being praised.

 

“You’re so quick to say that a person isn’t a performing monkey—a trick is something a monkey does, not what… I did… I… I killed a man.”

 

“Your first kill?” questioned Tyrion

 

“I’ve gone on hunts before!” defended Willem brashly.

 

“Aye, but the first time you’ve stared a man in the face and killed him, no? Or have you murdered your siblings in the cradle,” japed Tyrion.

 

“You leave my brothers out of this!” snapped Willem with a decided glare. Gwydion groaned and shifted across the fire.

 

_Brothers? That would be a point further for my Blackwood suspicions…_

 

“Still to take a life on the field of battle for the warrior’s sake is a holy thing,” proffered Tyrion—he didn’t believe it, but he’d heard such statements from his uncle.

 

Willem scoffed at this.

 

_Not very religious are you? I can’t blame that…_

 

“Why don’t you get some sleep, Willem, it’s my turn to take watch,” suggested Tyrion as he arranged himself into a better sitting position with which to take watch.

 

“I’m not tired,” grunted the boy stubbornly as his eyelids grew heavy.

 

“And I am not a dwarf,” dismissed Tyrion with the roll of his eyes.

 

“I can’t fall asleep,” admitted Willem as he snapped his eyes open.

 

“Do you see the Ironborn’s face? Is that what keeps you awake?” queried Tyrion.

 

Willem was silent.

 

“The man you killed was a rebel and treasonous plotter, I assure you. He was misusing the smallfolk’s anger for his own gain. Unless of course you sympathize with his corrupt cause?” prodded Tyrion.

 

“What do you know of the man I killed…” spat Willem darkly, staring into the flames.

 

Tyrion felt his lips stretch into a smirk as he said, “Plenty. One of the fortunes of being a dwarf is that you are out of most people’s eyesight. So they think that since you are not in sight, that you cannot hear—and as such they let their tongue wag far more loosely than is good for them. I heard plenty. The rebel leader was planning to so destabilizes the Westerlands to make it ripe for the Ironborn to take, and for him to rule the Gold Coast in his name. And if the Westerlands fell, why what would prevent the Riverlands from falling into Ironborn hands?”

 

_Drive the point close to home._

 

Oddly enough Willem didn’t seem as distressed over the thought as Tyrion thought he should.

 

“If the man was Ironborn, mayhaps he was thinking of the last time Westerlanders came to… _his_ lands,” stressed Willem.

 

_He has a keen interest in Ironborn affairs for a Riverlander… too keen…_

 

“Mayhaps, but then why not destabilize the North as well? It was Starks as well as Lannisters who put down the rebellion before the most recent one. I will admit Westerlanders do not have a great relationship with the Ironborn—it’s just one long song of raids, invasions, vengeance, deaths and destruction from generation to generation. Mayhaps the time had grown overly ripe for war, and we are only now paying for a century of peace.”

 

To this Willem did not seem to have anything to add.

 

“If you’re not going to sleep, then you can at least talk, for though I have the propensity to speak long and well, it is made a little easier if the person you are speaking with isn’t as still as a statue,” commented Tyrion—but Willem had already fallen asleep it seemed, leaving Tyrion to keep watch. A little while later, as the dawn began to appear it began to lightly snow. It was about this time he went about waking his comrades. Gwydion and Willem easily waking up with a small shove from him.

 

Ser Lymond though was shaking feverishly, his lower arm looking a bluish-purple, and his eyes rolled up into his head as he shook on the ground.

 

“Gods, he must be dying!” proclaimed Tyrion in shock.

 

“He’s in shock… he’ll die if we don’t get him to Boarshead Hall now!” proclaimed Gwydion as he bent over to pick Ser Lymond up off the ground.

 

“Help me now!” barked Gwydion to Willem, who had just stood there staring at the scene. With Gwydion's prompting Willem awkwardly assisted in positioning Ser Lymond upon his back.

 

_He needs to live… how else will I be able to get a raven to Jaime if we can’t get into his hall?_

 

It was these thoughts of worry that Gwydion carried the shaking Ser Lymond on his back as they trudged northwards, in the direction of Boarshead Hall. The light snow was beginning to fall far more rapidly, as they did.


	68. Elia V

**ELIA**  
  
Upon the King’s agreement to see reason and seek alliance with Lys and Myr to coordinate actions against Tyrosh, along with appeasing the other Free Cities likely to concern themselves with the brewing war, Robert had been reminded that it would be he who would have to negotiate such matters.  
  
“Ned will be here soon! Stannis and I have to coordinate our battle plans for how best to pluck those ripe pairs! Lord Tully, see to the matter,” dismissed Robert.  
  
“I would feel more confident in having Princess Elia there, after all, such alliances were her idea to begin with,” suggested Hoster, who gave Elia a knowing look which she felt somewhat confused by.  
  
“I don’t care who you have with you, just see the matter is done,” dismissed Robert and the council meeting departed.  
  
All the Free Cities kept ambassadors in King’s Landing, whom they communicated with by letters via ship, Elia had known this back in the early days of the late rebellion and had come to King’s Landing from Dragonstone initially to seek the possibility of aid in the form of food supplies to keep both the gathering army and the city fed through the duration of the winter that the rebellion had begun during. But her goodfather had barely seen her before locking her in the Red Keep.  
  
Hoster and Elia planned on meeting with each ambassador in private—the first of which they could do so was with Mykaer Qarl of Myr. He was a small ermine-like man and the younger brother of one of its many magisters. If Elia was standing she was sure she could have just seen over the top of his head. Because of such, she first thought him only a boy—until he spoke and failed to screech like one. His black hair was shaved except for a single strip which went from his widow’s peak to the base of his neck and had been grown long and braided to a length that nearly reached the floor. His chin was smooth and beardless—without even the suggestion of stubble. His clothes were black silk and black myrish lace but strung amongst the lace were a series of glass beads that shimmered in the right light, appearing almost as if he were the night sky incarnate. The only spot of color in Mykaer’s person was that of his eyes—which were the dark color of a fully ripe Dornish Blood Orange. When he was introduced to her in the Hand’s solar where the meetings between ambassadors were to take place, Mykaer’s small petite lips under his aquiline nose stretched into a thin but confident smile before he bent low to kiss her hand and held it for a rather uncomfortably awkward length.  
  
“Yes, yes she’s quite charmed at your admiration,” huffed Hoster rather testily.  
  
After breaking the kiss, Elia noticed a red mark upon her hand had been left behind and she subtlely shifted it to beneath the table while Mykaer took his seat at the table opposite of Hoster and Elia.  
  
“Business is made much better with the promise of pleasure, Lord Tully,” said Mykaer rather smugly as he began, he then took a breath and continued, “It is known that the Iron Throne wishes to punish pirates, and in this you have the appreciation and gratitude of every citizen of Myr.”  
  
“Compliments which could have been sent by a simple letter. I doubt that the magisters of Myr would have had you speak with us when a note saying as much could have been given just as easily,” retorted Elia, rather eager to poke a spear into the overly confident man’s inflated head.  
  
“Your intelligence is a match of your beauty,” answered Mykaer with a distinct smirk to Elia.  
  
“Aye, but now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, mayhaps we could discuss what the magisters of Myr wish to offer?” spurred an irritated Hoster.  
  
“But of course, Lord Tully. But of course,” assured Mykaer who then sighed and took on a more serious face as he said, “while in the past, Myr has often looked the other way when the Sunset Kingdoms have sought to bring their order to the Stepstones, I fear that I must say that this time is not like the others. While the magisters are as eager as yourselves to see those upstart pirates gone from those isles, they are more concerned with what the Iron Throne plans to bring to the islands after ridding them of the current infestation and how you plan to keep them from new pirates calling them home.”  
  
This of course, Elia could sense was a diversionary tactic, designed to get them to say what they could offer without Myr promising much in return. It wasn’t his true objective, but Elia would play to it as if it was, all the same—better to let him think she didn’t know and lull him into a false sense of security—using his own smugness against him and then over-toppling it with the best terms possible for Westeros.  
  
“Why, my lord ambassador—" began Elia.  
  
“Mykaer, please call me Mykaer,” said Mykaer silkly.  
  
“My—kaer, of course! I should let you know that in the strictest of confidence, that the King plans to construct a long string of seaforts and establish the islands as the new home of the Royal Navy.”  
  
Hoster almost gave away her ruse by opening his mouth and beginning to object, but Elia put the hand she had hid underneath the table on his arm that was likewise underneath the table to calm him. It had the desired effect, and her deception was kept secret for the moment.  
  
Mykaer kept his serious face, but now looked as though he were about to instruct a child as he said, “That is a very… ambitious project, Princess. And what is to keep your Royal Navy loyal? Say in a century or less, some future admiral decides to declare himself King of such a domain? You have now created a new pirate king and strengthened his position innumerably. And I imagine the rise in taxes and tariffs through the straights in order to pay for such a project would be quite high and dangerous considering one of your kingdoms is in rebellion over the subject as we currently speak.”  
  
That was his issue, right there—the magisters were worried about the tariffs and taxes on ships transporting goods through the Stepstones. Knowing this she knew exactly how to chart her course next.  
  
“Indeed, which is why Lord Tully and myself advised the King against such a plan when he proposed it, but our good stag king loves to build _unnecessary_ things,” stated Elia  
  
“The frivolity of the man,” added Hoster, seeming to catch on to her idea.  
  
“Then what is your good stag king’s plans? The magisters of Myr will not give their support if no thought is given to what to build in the aftermath.  
  
“A great Council of Kingdoms will be gathered to discuss such matters as trade and tariff relations through the straights at the end of the war for the matter to be discussed diplomatically amongst all interested parties,” stated Hoster, now playing a game of his own.  
  
“Such a council would of course be of great interest to the magisters, but I must of course write to them about the subject,” said Mykaer, quite easily accepting Hoster’s idea as Westeros’ intentions, and with such a matter discussed the lord ambassador rose, took his leave with another lengthy hand kiss—this time claiming Elia’s other hand, and departed Hoster’s solar.  
  
“What sort of game were you playing, my Princess?!” asked Hoster a few moments after Mykaer departed.  
  
“I attempted to discover the true concerns of Myr in this matter—which we did,” defended Elia.  
  
“Not that, even my dull-witted heir could have seen that game. I meant the matter of that hand kissing, my Princess. Such manners are… well… indecent to be allowed, and a dishonor to your person and rank,” grumbled Lord Tully.  
  
Elia stared at Hoster for an instant before she realized what he was avoiding saying, possibly even letting himself conclude on the matter.  
  
“Lord Tully, I am rather touched at your concern for seeing that I receive the honor and respect that I am due do to my position and rank, but let me say that such an action, while irritating is nothing to be concerned with,” stated Elia quite eloquently, and suddenly aware of how close she was to the King’s Hand.  
  
“It doesn’t sit well with me,” stated Hoster rather edgily.  
  
“Neither does it with me, but consider Mykaer Qarl is the voice of the magisters in King’s Landing and we need his alliance, I can stand to have marked hands for a few hours,” stated Elia, moving her hands to the wheels of her chair to back away in that instant, but Hoster took her left hand before she could connect it with the wheel. He held it for a few moments without saying anything, the moment only being broken when Elia withdrew her hand from his grasp and then continued her exit of his solar for the moment, stating that she needed to check on Rhaenys before their next meeting—the one with the Lady Ambassador of Lys.  
  
Rhaenys, Elia was told by her servants, was outdoors in the gardens with her cousin Sarella, and two of the Golden Stags—as Robert’s three bastards had been come to known—taking advantage of the warmer spell that had hit the capital. Knowing it was cold out there despite the warmer temperatures, Elia had herself wrapped in a warm lamb wool cloak lined with a hood, fit herself with gloves, and asked for Fynaes, her own dragonseed manservant from Dragonstone that had been approved by Oberyn to wheel her outdoors. Elia would have gone herself, if the gardens were not made of paths of tiny smooth pebbles which the wheels of her chair found difficult to navigate without extra help. Fynaes was brawny built, and though he shared the same hair and eyes as Rhaegar, Elia did not find him at all disturbing to be near.  
  
Rhaenys, Sarella, Mya Stone, and Robb Rivers had specifically found much enjoyment running through the maze of vines and hedges at the one end of the garden. Everything in the gardens were dead since the last frost, and so Elia could hear them far more easily within the mazebuilder-like maze than she normally would have when the gardens were more fully alive. She passed a few of the gardeners at work taking advantage of clearing some of the fallen leaves and pruning some of the bushes and trees of truly dead limbs that drained their growth. At the beginning of the maze she had Fynaes stop and looked at Septa Desminisa, who Queen Rhaella had hired to see that Rhaenys was more properly educated in the faith of the Seven. The Septa before Elia’s arrival had been calling into the maze for Rhaenys and the other children to come out.  
  
“My apologies my princess, but the young princess and the other children escaped into the maze and I—” began the Septa.  
  
“I am sure you did as best you could,” dismissed Elia charmingly, though she doubted her own words.  
  
“Rhaenys,” called Elia as loudly as she could without yelling.  
  
“Mother!” came a rather excited voice in the next instance, followed by the sound of many footfalls upon the stone pebbles. A few moments later, Elia was greeted to the sight of her daughter—well bundled up in this cold weather, but with her wavy dark brown hair falling loose from the loose hairstyle that her maids had obviously styled it in. Upon the sight of her, Elia saw her daughter’s smile widen considerably, but upon the disapproving glare of the Septa, Rhaenys brought herself under control and corrected her position so that she could curtsy properly.  
  
“My lady mother,” stated Rhaenys more subduedly, to the satisfaction of the Septa.  
  
“Come here my sweet girl,” beckoned Elia, and her daughter, despite the Septa’s icy glare rushed to her and hugged her tightly.  
  
“What is it mother?” asked Rhaenys when Elia had held the hug for rather long.  
  
Elia said quite fondly as she stroked her daughters wild locks from her face, “I just wanted to hold you, sweetling.”  
  
“Oh,” said Rhaenys rather bluntly.  
  
“Tell me what you and the other children have been doing to cause your Septa so much grief,” whispered Elia conspiratorially to her daughter.   
  
Rhaenys eyed the nearby Septa rather warily before taking a step back and answering the question, “Mya had an idea to hide in the maze and we agreed to do so, it was wrong, my lady mother.”  
  
The Septa grinned as contentedly as a cat after receiving cream.  
  
“That is a fine answer, sweetling, but I am sure the Septa has other business to attend to, such as preparing for your next lessons,” mentioned Elia rather unsubtlely. Elia felt almost proud as the woman in white robes took the hint and departed the next instant. When she had departed, Sarella and the two gold stags emerged from the maze rather ashamedly. Sarella’s skin had darkened to reflect her mother’s Summer Island features, and with the manner in which she kept her hair could have been confused easily for another boy. Mya Stone and Robb Rivers were quite obviously scions of Robert Baratheon—Robb Rivers looking extremely like him, even at his young age of six namedays.  
  
“Princess Elia,” stated all three in near unison as Sarella and Mya awkwardly curtsied and Robb gave a little bow.  
  
“Such solemn faces, children, fear not, the Septa has left,” encouraged Elia, which only caused conflicting faces to appear on the children—well except for little Robb who simply brightened up rather contentedly.  
  
Elia’s concern for the children’s formality was answered when she heard the approach of another pair of footfalls and turned to see another woman in white—though her robes were far creamier in color than the pale white of a Septa’s—but at a distance might be mistaken for such. Alongside the woman was a small child, also clad in a creamy white. When she came before Elia, she dropped her hood revealing beautiful white-gold hair and lovely blue-violet eyes. She was stunning to look at and admire—the best of Valyrian features all in one person, and perhaps what her goodmother might have looked in her youth. The boy having completely matching features and was also an exceptionally pretty child.  
  
“Princess Elia,” stated the woman with her own curtsy and the boy also bowed, though he seemed more concerned looking at the other children who stood around awkwardly at the meeting.  
  
“I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting—lady?” asked Elia.  
  
“Lady Ambassador Lynorra Rogare. And this is my son, Oraen Rogare. Forgive me for not following proper procedures, but my son was anxious to join the young children at play before our meeting was to take place,” stated Lynorra rather fluidly. Of course, the Lyseni were well known for having the Valyrian looks of all the Free Cities. She should have known her immediately.  
  
“But of course. Rhaenys, Sarella, Mya, Robb, why don’t you four and Oraen continue the game you were playing in the maze?” suggested Elia, and the children all looked rather relieved to have an excuse to depart—even Rhaenys, which hurt Elia. The young Oraen was included rather easily and the five children ran off into the maze of twig hedges and vines.  
  
Elia and Lynorra then, along with Fynaes’ assistance, traversed the rest of the dead gardens, with their breaths appearing in the air before them as they spoke.  
  
“You must tell me, Lady Lynorra, how has one so young as yourself managed to secure a position as ambassador to the Iron Throne?” questioned Elia.  
  
“Besides my family name, you mean?” interjected Lynorra rather quickly.  
  
“I did not mean—” began Elia.  
  
“Most people would assume as much,” interrupted Lynorra.  
  
“If I understood it correctly you are from the poorer branch of the family, are you not?” asked Elia, knowing full well the answer.  
  
Lady Lynorra smiled at that and said, “Most of the wealth the Rogare family has been compromised, my princess, the distinction between branches is not so great as it once was since the rise of the Iron Bank of Braavos,” stated Lynorra.  
  
Elia continued, “But the distinction is still made in Lys, I am sure—which is perhaps why despite establishing such a successful brothel in the city you have chosen to spend your years here with your young son.”  
  
“He is not so young he is but two namedays younger than your daughter. I must say though, you have done quite a bit of research on me for one who did not know me upon sight,” state Lynorra rather bemusedly.  
  
Elia caught the lady ambassador’s slip there. The Rogares had married her ancestor, Viserys II, they were distant family… perhaps this one sought to renew such _family_ ties.  
  
“Knowing of a person and knowing a person are two very different things, and my brother has a few… contacts in Lys, I confess.”  
  
Oberyn had actually slept with nearly every whore and courtesan in the city was actually the case, and that was the extent of his knowledge given that her brothel had only allowed him in upon invitation.  
  
“Many of whom are in my employ, my Princess and tell as interesting tales about your brother. They do wonder if he’ll return, tell me is there any hope, for I fear he has developed quite a following amongst my girls—or at least that had been the case before my departure from the city,” admitted Lynorra rather anxiously.   
  
“I will speak to him, but I can offer no promises,” offered Elia graciously, before turning quite serious, “now to the issue of the Stepstones?” suggested Elia.  
  
“I didn’t think you wished to discuss such matters without Lord Tully,” stated Lynorra rather with a false sense of surprise.  
  
 _Liar, that’s exactly what you were hoping would happen._  
  
“But the fact of the matter is, Princess, I believe Lys has given as much aid as it can already. Pirate kings are just too _costly_ to constantly be putting down—I thought Daemon Targaryen’s Kingdom of the Stepstones would have been a lesson enough for the Sunset Kingdoms.”  
  
“And miss the opportunity to take a larger share of the disputed lands? I doubt that,” quibbled Elia, dangling the bait for the woman like a man might a coin for a whore.  
  
“Taking back the lands which rightfully belong to Lys does not require any formal agreement between Lys and the Iron Throne,” stated Lynorra assuredly.  
  
“No, but it would make any potential disagreements over the borders of those lands with Myr much easier to keep from turning into yet another _costly_ war,” countered Elia.craftily.  
  
“Has Myr signed an agreement with the Iron Throne then?”  
  
“Myr has our full support in taking whatever lands Tyroshi wrongfully holds that it claims as part of their domain,” said Elia rather easily. She could see the effects her words were having on the woman when suddenly yet another figure appeared in the gardens. Flanked on either side by her ladies in waiting and with her twin daughters wrapped in warm woolen clothes was her goodmother, looking rather testy about something.  
  
“I fear we must save the rest of our conversation for when we meet again with Lord Tully,” stated Elia as she saw the determined approach of her goodmother.  
  
“But of course, Princess, stated Lynorra when she saw who was arriving, and the lady ambassador bowed out and headed back in the direction of the hedge maze.  
  
“Gooddaughter, I wish to speak with you, alone in private,” stated Rhaella rather determinedly, and Elia had Fynaes wheel her to a secluded spot of the garden by a bench before leaving them to speak in private.  
  
“Septa Desminisa came to me about Rhaenys’ companionship with those gold stags.”  
  
“Sarella is her closest cousin to her own age, and Sarella and the stags are near inseparable.”  
  
“It isn’t proper that a future dragon Queen should play so freely with two bastards—even if they are the King’s. Were young Prince Durran here, I would suggest she spend more time with him as she should know her future husband better than she does, but as it is, she should spend more time with my daughters, Naerys and Aelinor—or even my son Baelor. It would send the right message to the rest of the court and the faith—especially when you consider the Iron Throne’s history with Bastard siblings…” suggested Rhaella determinedly.  
  
“Aye, but in that case it was a matter of one bastard receiving more than his due, which none of the gold stags have.”  
  
 _Thus far…_  
  
To this the Queen did not answer Elia’s challenge but simply moved on to the next subject, “There is also another matter which I have been meaning to speak with you for some time…”   
  
Elia sighed and waited for her goodmother to get on with it, which she did after a short pause.  
  
“You must speak with your brother about his actions concerning the faith. The High Septon does not appreciate his interference with holy matters.”  
  
“What?” questioned Elia, now completely caught off guard.  
  
Her goodmother sighed and said, “There is a matter of a certain rogue Septa whom the High Septon has come to learn he helped leave the capital before her own trial could be arranged. She has since returned to Dorne—and the Maiden forgive her her vows—she has given birth to a _daughter_ while spouting a bunch of heretical nonsense about the Mother.”  
  
Elia felt a certain twinge of fear in that instant. Oberyn had gotten Septa Susyn out of the capital on her orders.  
  
She hid this fear with a smile and a concerned question, “If the High Septon believes my brother to be so complicit in the affair, why doesn’t he command him to come to the Sept of Baelor himself and try him—like the _many_ men and women he has each day?”  
  
 _The man wouldn't dare._  
  
“I’m trying to help you, Elia. There are further rumors that he did not just assist her escape, but also is the father of this child, and that she isn’t the first Septa to have dishonored,” stated Rhaella with genuine concern.  
  
“Everyone knows about Tyene’s mother,” assured Elia.  
  
“Not the High Septon, and the man has _burned_ Septas for less,” stated Rhaella with a rather worried look upon her face.   
  
“What would you have me do?” asked Elia with a sigh of aggravation.  
  
“Have him deliver the Septa… or else I cannot say what will happen with any certainty,” said Rhaella looking askance in that next moment.  
  
“And what if he cannot?” asked Elia.  
  
“Then he sure isn’t a great Master of Whispers then,” stated Rhaella bitterly.  
  
“Be careful, goodmother, of what you say about my dearly beloved brother, who need I remind you is the King’s Lord of Intelligence,” warned Elia with a near growl to her voice as she spoke.  
  
“I always hated that change in title,” admitted Rhaella in an offhanded manner, before turning to face Elia, her scared face contorting in a bit of anger as she said, “But he isn’t a very good one at all. A good one would have prevented any assassin from touching you. He’s the reason you’re in that chair now because he would rather fuck his whore and Septas than be a proper spymaster!”  
  
She felt her blood boil—a welcome thing in this cold—and Elia’s eyes narrowed as she hissed insensibly, “For such an insult, if I could stand and leave, goodmother, I would do so this instant, but given that I cannot I must beg your pardon to call my man to do so.”  
  
Rhaella waved her hand and Elia called for Fynaes to come and collect her, as she departed Elia turned to her goodmother and stated, “I will speak to Rhaenys about spending more time with her Hasty aunts and uncle, your grace. And as for the other matter, the High Bones should be careful of how high he challenges, for the King will not tolerate his trials for forever!”  
  
“So you’ve joined their faction then,” stated Rhaella rather amazedly.  
  
“I know no faction of which you speak. All I know is that no one will threaten my little brother and not taste the wrath of Dorne!” proclaimed Elia rather hastily before she motioned for Fynaes to take her back to the castle. She had grown quite cold and wanted to warm up. She sent one of her own ladies to fetch the children and tell them to return indoors.   
  
Once back inside she found that Hoster was quick to find her himself, having put on a cloak and gloves himself with the seeming intention of coming out into the gardens, though Elia noticed he was carrying an extra robe.  
  
“My Princess, I was just coming to seek you out—the ambassador from the Sealord of Braavos just arrived wishing to negotiate between us and Tyrosh—” began Hoster as he followed her example in disrobing.  
  
“You did not have to trouble yourself on my account, you could have sent a man,” stated Elia, still rather testy from her conversation with her goodmother.  
  
“I saw you speaking with Lady Lynorra Rogare and thought to join you and bring you an extra robe—given how much colder it must be here for you,” stated Hoster, seemingly caught aback by her residual anger.  
  
“Forgive me, Hoster, I just had a rather… trying conversation with the Queen dowager,” explained Elia, rather affected to see his hurt expression. She was touched by his thoughtfulness, though the admittance of such a gesture brought back to the front of her mind the incident which had sent her flying into the gardens in the first place. She decided then that compared to all the other matters that day, dealing with Lord Tully’s blind affection should be the easiest concern for her to handle, and yet it was not. Her mind told her this was how it should be, but she felt the matter was rather more difficult than that for her than that seeming simplicity suggested.  
  
At her explanation Hoster eased and asked if she was up to speaking with the Sealord’s ambassador with him or not.  
  
“Aye, for there’s always much to discuss,” said Elia with a nod and a smile that escaped her as she took control of her chair herself to wheel it towards the Hand’s solar.


	69. Renly II

**RENLY**  
  
True to his word, Renly and Narbert did see the deck of a ship, as promised, though a bit later than had been planned, and with far different intentions. War between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne was all but declared. Lys and Myr had been placated through the diplomacy, and while neither side was officially joining the war, a few ships from each city had been sent to assist the Royal Navy.  
  
Robert had sent an ultimatum to the Archon of Tyrosh to quit his alliance with the pirates of the Stepstones or to face the fury of his warhammer. The Archon’s reply had been a long list of grievances—that their merchants had unlawfully had their goods and wares seized, several had been unjustifiably killed, and that the Iron Throne was interfering with the terms of trade in the region despite the agreement it had signed at the end of the Ninepenny War. Tyrosh said for these acts that a state of war would exist between the Iron Throne and Tyrosh.  
  
Robert couldn’t have been any happier to hear such news, and shortly after such a declaration had been made, was Renly put aboard a ship along with Stannis, and setting sail for the Stepstones not long thereafter.  
  
Renly found life aboard ship however to be even more distressing than he had thought it would be. Ser Courtnay’s warning of having to sleep in the same quarters as the lord he was squired to came true, and he and Narbert slept on the floor of Stannis’ cabin. But what Renly could not have foreseen was just how sick he became on the sea. There was not a moment the ship rocked that he was not in danger of vomiting. Narbert, who on shore had been clumsy and a bit of an embarrassment as a squire seemed now to have found his heretounknown home aboard ship. He seemed to adjust to the tilts of the ship so naturally, it almost seemed as if he had been born to serve on one. Renly, who on land had been Stannis’ preferred squire in all affairs, now found himself being displaced by Narbert. Now Renly was stuck having to wash Stannis’ clothes and clean, while Narbert learned all manner of ship craft from Stannis—from points of sailing to winds and knots. Renly knew that Stannis had wanted him to learn something of the sea—he hadn’t expected Renly to take a complete interest in the subject, but Narbert’s natural abilities suddenly seemed more important to nurture to Stannis than giving Renly even a basic understanding.  
  
Then again, Renly was often too close to heaving whatever he ate to be the best of students, but he could have worked through it—he was confident that he could have. He might be knocked over and fall down, but he could always rise and laugh it off—aye, he could, he was sure of it… until Stannis’ disapproving glance met him. Then Renly was good as lost again as his fear over Stannis seeing him slip and trip—unable to acquire sealegs even after being aboard ship several days—or rush to the side of the boat to dry heave, returned.  
  
 _I’m embarrassing him… that’s why he won’t teach me anything._  
  
Stannis, Renly was sure, was no doubt disappointed with his inability to control himself—even traveling from fore to aft with his brother’s meals in hand without spilling them proved to be quite difficult a task for him to accomplish. This evening’s meal, a reheated offering of the lamb’s broth and stale bread that the cook had made two days ago, and the broth being near five days old. It wasn’t that there were any lack of provisions—far from it, it was simply his brother’s policy that provisions should be stretched more at the beginning of a voyage to prevent there being any undue waste.  
  
Stannis had told him, when Renly had let a complaint slip from his mouth on the third day of lamb’s broth, “One never knows how long such a voyage will take in truth—one may guess but there are always many factors to consider, such if a storm blows your ship off course or separates you from the rest of your fleet. And if at the beginning of a voyage you establish that the meals will be stretched and saved, your crew will accept it as normal and appreciate the times when they are indulged all the more.”  
  
“And when will that be?” Renly had asked.  
  
“When it’s needed most.”  
  
And keeping his brother’s frugality in mind—while longing for his goodsister’s charge of a kitchen—Renly had tried his best to be quite careful with bringing Stannis his meals.  
  
Tonight though, the broth smelt slightly sour, which made Renly’s already tossled gut quiver. He had just made it through the door when the floor beneath him began to tilt and Renly’s footing gave in, causing him to fall to the floor. With a clatter, the wooden bowl fell to the floor, spilling the steaming sour broth partly over himself and the floor in front of him. The aroma of the broth was too much for Renly to take anymore. His eyes watered, he involuntarially lurched forward and chunks of the bread he’d eaten for the midday meal mixed with the soup in front of him. He felt himself shiver then as he lurched another time, less chunks appearing and more green-orange bile spilling forth in a more syrupy consistency. It was absolutely disgusting to Renly—the sour taste permeated his mouth, his nose—everything. He lurched again, but this time managed to hold back whatever was fighting to come up. He felt cold now—down his front, and tears and sweat made his body shake with cold. A few more times his body tried to lurch but he held back. When he finally felt himself coming into better control of his body, he began to become better aware of his surroundings.   
  
He felt an even colder hand to his forehead and a voice from somewhere say, “He has a fever, my lord…”  
  
 _Narbert… that’s Narbert…_  
  
Narbert was now in the room and Stannis was saying something to him, but what Renly couldn’t tell, his mind too foggy to comprehend what was being said. He however did feel his doublet and then his shirt being stripped off of him, his trousers following soon after—leaving him only in his smallclothes. Renly was too weak and confused to fight it—and far far too cold. He was then picked up and carried to his blankets and straw pillow. Renly looked up and saw hard blue eyes staring down at him.  
  
Stannis… Stannis has me…  
  
Suddenly the blue of his brother’s eyes seemed to pulse as if it were the rocking waves of the ocean around the island of Tarth. His brother’s eyes seemed to grow larger, swallowing up everything of the cabin until there was nothing but blue everywhere… blue waves.  
  
He was standing upon a shore looking to the sun as it set at the sea. The sky above him was a brilliant orange, red, and purple. The sea tide came in and out lapping at his legs like a dog might for attention. The day was sunny and beautiful—and there was not a soul in sight as far as Renly’s eye could see. He turned around to try and see on what shore he stood to see that now he stood at the top of a high hill on an island. The blue waves of the ocean hitting against its shores. Further down the hill, in a little cove of the island was a small fleet of ships—that were on fire. Men were screaming and diving off the ships—a few trying to escape only to smash into each other at the narrow opening of the cove—entrapping all the ships in a firery crucible. Many swam onto the shore only to be met with knights ready to slaughter them. It was a battle—a great battle! Renly took a step forward to try and join it, only to feel his feet sink into the wet silt of sand beneath the ocean.   
  
He was once again back at the edge of the sea at sunset, only now the waves came up to the mid of his thigh—it was obviously high tide. This time when he turned around from looking at the ocean he saw an unending sea of green before him—tall grasses which dwarfed Renly quite noticeably. He felt a fear overtake him staring at the grass—there was something in there that wanted him which was waiting for him. He saw the grass rustle and then suddenly the sun seemed to darken. Renly turned to see something large and black had blocked the sun—and it was coming for him—a dragon! A black dragon! It breathed fire and Renly could only stare in horror and fear at the sight of the coming beast. So entranced was he that he missed as something large and hairy knocked him over and then he felt himself being tied. He looked only to see something even more frightening—a gigantic black spider, weaving a cocoon around him, tossing him between two of its legs as if he were nothing more than a mere fly in its strong hairy legs.  
  
He wanted to scream and he fought at his bindings, but still the spider wrapped harder. And then he heard a scream from somewhere. He opened his eyes and he was amongst his blankets—which were wrapped around his body tightly with Narbert attempting to keep them around him, and the voice who was screaming he recognized as himself. He was back in Stannis’ cabin.  
  
“Renly!” commanded a stern strong voice, and Renly turned to see his brother looking at him sternly. He stood hovered over a map that had been tacked onto a table that had been nailed to the floor.  
  
Renly immediately stopped screaming and panted, feeling quite out of breath. His mind was confused by what he had seen in his dream.  
  
Narbert felt Renly’s forehead, and Renly suddenly noticed how sweaty and hot he felt.  
  
“The fever’s broken, my lord,” stated Narbert.  
  
“Finally,” was all that Stannis said in reply.  
  
Renly began to ask, “How long have I—”  
  
Stannis’ curt reply was “Three days.”  
  
Renly felt his eyes bulge as he settled back into his pile of blankets. Beneath him he felt the hard floor but he didn’t mind at the moment. He was dressed in a shift.  
  
Suddenly recalling himself, Renly stood and   
  
“Lay back down, Renly,” sighed his brother.  
  
“No… I’m your squire, my lord—”  
  
Stannis cut him short once again, saying, “As is Narbert who’s been more than satisfactory these past few days. Lay down and recover—you’re no use to me sick.”  
  
And so a day went by with Renly laying amongst his blankets. He no longer felt sick at the rocking of the ship—in fact it felt rather soothing now in comparison to what it had been before. He was present when Stannis called a few men—other captains and select men from other ships present to speak with them privately. Renly pretended to be asleep, but he heard everything.  
  
“That island is where the remainder of the pirate fleet is hidden, if we’re to believe our Lord Intelligence,” scoffed Stannis.  
  
“I doubt it’s the remainder of their fleet,” countered an old captain  
  
“A cove that size likely could only fit a few ships at best,” added a second man.  
  
 _A cove? That sounds familiar…_  
  
Renly tried to recall why it sounded so familiar, but all he could recall was a hazy sense of fire and smoke, and nothing more.  
  
“The issue still remains we need to finish the destruction of these pirates before facing the actual navy that Tyrosh is sending in our direction. We take these out and they won’t have the opportunity to squeeze us between them,” clarified Stannis.  
  
“The Tyroshi navy will be easy, my lord. They’re just a bunch of refitted trading vessels with a few soldiers on them,” declared a young captain.  
  
“Nothing in life is ever easy… there’s always a cost to be paid,” countered the old captain.  
  
“Any news of Pentos or Volantis?” asked a new voice that hadn’t spoken before now.  
  
“Volantis is in between triarchs--though it's likely the Elephants will win given the Tigers were leading them until recently, and Pentos has attacked Myr for declaring for our cause,” stated Stannis.  
  
“We’re in a war with Pentos and Tyrosh then?” asked another new voice.  
  
Stannis addressed this concern by saying, “Most likely—but given that their navy is small and for defensive purposes only, that’s of little concern to us at the moment. Nonetheless the sooner we blunt the Tyrosh, the sooner we can respond to any move Pentos makes. Tyrosh can do nothing without a navy—take away its ships and it’s likely to starve.”  
  
When the men at long last left, Renly relaxed his body—which before this moment he’d been unaware was tense.  
  
“You can stop pretending to be asleep,” stated Stannis matter-of-fact-like.  
  
Renly felt himself tense once again, but he pushed himself through it and sat up. Stannis was once again pouring over the map tacked to the table. Renly wrapped his body—covered only with a shift—with a blanket and stood and approached the table. He found his footing much easier now—though he was a little clumsy about it still. Eventually he managed to approach the table where Stannis had small wooden blocks placed all about the map.  
  
Stannis said gruffly, “You’re looking better… mayhaps it’s time for a little lesson in tactics.”  
  
“Really?” asked Renly, his excitement shining through.  
  
“Aye… one thing to always remember Renly—a great strategy will make it so you win the battle before you arrive to fight it. Knowing how to arrange your forces is of vital importance—you need know their strengths, weaknesses and how well each group you have is at certain roles.”  
  
Renly nodded, to show he understood.  
  
“One fleet as a group is a strong commanding and terrifying thing to behold, but if you split it in two or more groups and it might be less imposing, but it is much more versatile and able to corner a single large group and surround it—giving the enemy little room to escape. The only problem with this at sea is that communication is rather difficult,” stated Stannis, and Renly nodded.  
  
“But arranging your ships or men is only half the job of a tactician—a great one will be able to choose where the battle will take place. You see this narrow straight here?” asked Stannis.  
  
Renly nodded yet again.  
  
Stannis moved a few blocks across the map, explaining as he did, “One of my plans after the defeat of the pirates is to have the ships we sent out earlier to take out Greyjoy draw the Tyroshi fleet to between these straights, where our ships will be waiting for them.”  
  
“Leading them into a trap,” added Renly, to show he understood.  
  
Stannis nodded his head, and then Renly asked, “And what if the Tyroshi don’t follow your ships?”  
  
“After our fleet burns a ship or two of theirs, they won’t be able to resist the opportunity,” was all that Stannis said in response.  
  
Renly felt his stomach quiver a little bit and his head spin. Silently he said a prayer to the Warrior to be with those ships when the time came to provoke the Tyroshi navy into giving them chase.


	70. Sandor II

**SANDOR**  
  
He awoke in a cold sweat as he had many times before since leaving the Westerlands. His dreams bothered him--dreams of Helena surrounded by fire and stone--steel echoing in the distance, and her heavy with their child running for her life.  
  
It was nonsense--that's all it was. Helena wasn't near any danger. She was with her brother, and even if Sandor loathed the man's guts, he had to admit that he wouldn't harm his own blood kin--that much Sandor knew. It was Conhur that Sandor feared being under Lymond's control. Sometimes Conhur would appear running alongside with Helena--desperately trying to lead her to safety. He hadn't been in tonight's dream... or had he? He seemed to recall seeing him climbing over a crumbling wall to the top of a rampart.  
  
The dream was fading from his mind now--as they all did after he had begun to make sense of things. Sandor turned in his hammock to see Arthur still asleep in his. Sometimes he felt better when he talked about these things with Arthur--other times Sandor felt like Arthur only grew tired of hearing Sandor's repetitive dreams.  
  
Arthur the last time he'd listened to Sandor had said, "You're worse than my sister Ashara was. She always came to me saying she dreamed of how she was going to die, and when she finally did..."  
  
The fallen star had grown silent and slightly morose then, and Sandor made a conscious effort to resist the temptation to ask exactly how Arthur's sister's death had differed or not from her dreams. No, to wake Arthur up now and ask him would only bring that subject up again, and Sandor would rather not speak with his mentor over such a tender subject as sisters at the moment. Doing so he felt his cheek twinge as he recalled how Calena had--  
  
No, he had to get his mind off of that for certain.   
  
_Mayhaps if I do well..._  
  
It was a hope--a foolish one at that--but he could not let go of it no matter how much he dismissed it. At Clegane Keep, whenever he didn't want to think about something he simply went out into the forest and killed something. There was something mind numbingly good to shedding blood. Killing was easy, and didn't require you think about much while you did it. Unfortunately the only thing to kill on board a ship might be the occasional fish that they might catch if they got stuck in the doldrums.  
  
He then decided to get up to visit above decks was likely the best place to try and get his mind off of these thoughts. Attempting to get out of his hammock landed him on his ass.  
  
"Fucker..." muttered Sandor as he picked himself up off the floor of the ship hold and pulling on his cloak over the clothes he had slept in and slipping his feet into his boots.  
  
He meandered his way through the collection of hammocks as best he could without knocking into sleeping men. Eventually he made his way through the dark to the half-lit stairs, painted silver by the moonlight. He trudged up the steps not caring if he was making too much noise or not--the noise was welcome as far as he was concerned, for it drowned out his thoughts. Above deck the skeleton crew which kept the boat on course went about their business. Sandor looked about the deck and then up to the sky. Even with the moon, Sandor could see more stars than at Clegane Keep--especially around the horizon.   
  
His ears then picked up then the sound of steel being sharpened. Sandor turned his eyes in the direction of the sound and saw the she-bear that had hid herself as a boy take her dagger to a whetstone. As if she could sense his gaze, she looked up and met his. Her eyes were as grey and sharp as the steel she put to the stone. There was something wild and dark about her gaze that made Sandor feel downright on edge.  
  
 _At least her eyes aren't fire...  
_  
His attempts to calm his mind seeking some outlet for distraction from the unwelcome thoughts which it dwelt upon failed, of course. Fear was something to respond to--this of course was only a small shock compared to sleeping in the same room as Gregor, but still fear usually told him what his eyes couldn't. Right now they were saying the she-bear was someone to be wary around. His thoughts then brought for the memory of the battle against those pirates in Blackwater Bay--when she'd drenched herself in blood from tearing at the bodies so much. This bear had claws and teeth--and she wasn't afraid to use them.  
  
"Not tired?" asked the she-bear almost casually as she flitted her eyes back to her work, the stone skating across the edge of an already well-sharpened blade.  
  
Sandor grunted and then noted with what almost came out as a growl, "That blade's sharp enough,"  
  
"Not for the prey I have in mind..." she responded after a short pause to finish the current stroke of the stone across the sword.  
  
"Going hunting, she-bear?" he scoffed amusedly. His mind wandered back to a bear he'd come across on one of his hunts, hovering over a stream intently ready to strike a paw out at an unsuspecting fish when it came conveniently in reach.  
  
It was another stroke before she answered, "Aye... for squid."   
  
Hearing her admit that, Sandor heard in the back of his mind a voice from what felt like long ago say: _“When the Ironborn came… they took my sister, and made me a serving boy… your grace. I would like to kill as many as I can and get her back if she still lives.”_  
  
Sandor could almost feel the rage he felt then--the rage that had burned him as much as the fire Gregor shoved his face into had. He could understand that drive--no, need--to hunt squid... aye he could understand it well.  
  
He rounded on her, "Wrong sea for that."  
  
She definitely growled as she rebutted his reply with, "What about all the lords and lordlings the King threw off the isles? A good number surely followed the king squid here to do his selling..."  
  
The stroke that came after came louder and faster than all the others, making the steel ring out after the stone had been lifted from it. It was a blade song--low and hungry for the one thing that would satisfy it--the only thing that a dagger was truly made for: killing.  
  
For a moment they both just stood there staring and listening to the blade song play out until the blade stopped shaking--ending on a high pitch that unsettled the air even more.  
  
Her opportunity to quench the blade's thirst and satisfy her own need came all too quickly in the days that followed, when a mission was put before the ship to see who would be willing to go on a dangerous mission to hopefully end the pirate threat once and for all. Besides the she-bear, Benjen Stark eagerly volunteered.  
  
 _No doubt to follow after her like a pup..._  
  
Eager for the opportunity to have something to kill once again to quiet his mind, Sandor volunteered as well--and he was joined soon after by Arthur.  
  
That night he closed his eyes and hoped that mayhaps the dream would leave now--but it didn't.


	71. Jaime V

**JAIME**  
  
When word of Lord Stark being recalled to King’s Landing spread amongst the camp at Darry, Jaime was livid. He had had enough of the King’s disinterest in the affairs of the Westerlands. If his monarch would not deal with the issues plaguing his family’s kingdom, then Jaime would take his orders to “deal with the West” and ignore the part which had mentioned submitting his small force to the leadership of Stark. Tyrion's slain blood cried out for needed vengeance and Jaime could not rest until it was satiated.  
  
As his mind turned, he thought that it would be almost too easy for Jaime to exploit such a desired separation. For once he was glad that a good number of the men under him were part of the fucking Holy Fools, for they had looked to the prospect of following the commands of such a bloody wolf and Old Gods worshiper to be objectionable. It would also help that a raven had taken to following Stark wherever he went so that some of the Holy Fools took it to be the mark of “Northern sorcery” not seen since the days of “Bloodraven’s tyranny”.  
  
By the time Jaime had formed the earliest part of these plans, the sun was setting and a messenger came to him saying that Stark wished to speak with him him in his tent--no doubt to discuss the King’s commands.   
  
Stark was seated at a rough table and Jaime was invited to take a seat. The black monstrosity that at other times perched itself on Stark's shoulder was instead perched on another chair around the table as though it were an equal participant in this discussion. Jaime eyed the creature which seemed to glare at him, as though giving him a thorough examination. He had to admit that there was indeed something rather uncomfortable about the bird’s presence--most especially its eyes which seemed to hide an intelligence that was at once frightening.  
  
“Ignore the raven,” sighed Stark, who saw where his gaze went.  
  
Jaime smirked, and to make himself feel comfortable by japing, “Just as long as the bird doesn’t make any decisions for you, I think we’ll be fine, Lord Stark.”  
  
At this, Stark’s placid frozen countenance chipped and frowned slightly. The sight recalled Jaime of the first time he’d ever tried that with his father before he’d learned to ignore Jaime’s japes.  
  
 _Had father not been greedy, he might still be ignoring them..._  
  
The raven flapped its wings and cawed rather discontentedly—as though it understood that it was indeed the subject of the conversation.  
  
Stark seemed to regain his composure at this distraction and then said, “Ser Jaime, you must have heard by now of the King’s command for me to move my forces to King’s Landing so as to deal with the Stepstones and Tyrosh.”  
  
“Aye,” answered Jaime a bit darkly.  
  
 _And we all know how well our good King cares for the Westerlands…_  
  
Stark continued, “While I must go, I do not believe that the Westerlands should be ignored.”  
  
Jaime was sure he was dreaming at hearing that, but the next moment he almost hit himself for   
  
He explained further, the Lord of Winterfell's grey eyes meeting Jaime's as he said determinedly, “As such, since I will likely not need a tremendous amount of cavalry in the Stepstones or Tyrosh, I intend to send you, the men you came to Darry with, and some of my own calvary to secure the Westerlands."   
  
Stark then looked oddly at Jaime as he said, “Get the justice your brother deserves and bring the King's peace and law there. After matters are settled with the Stepstones, the issue of who should rule the kingdom can be settled and until then be its acting lord and warden. I’ll deal with the King should he have any disagreement on the matter.”  
  
Jaime was speechless. He wanted to curse himself for what he had been contemplating doing in his mind—he was disgusted with himself. He now knew just how much Stark was a better man than the reputation repeated by southern wet nurses to their charges spoke of him. How could he have thought of playing up such a reputation simply to allow himself some small ounce of vengeance for Tyrion’s sake—to secure Cersei’s children their right? He wanted to die then and there of shame.  
  
Stark continued, “You can ride out in the morning, I’ve already had the orders and the necessary arrangements made concerning the supply train.”  
  
“Lord Stark… t—thank you,” was all Jaime was able to say.  
  
Stark simply nodded and Jaime left the tent.  
  
He departed for the Westerlands at the head of a small army—or so it seemed to Jaime. The men of the Holy Hundred did not take to working well with the northerners who joined their ranks. One would have thought the extra horse and men would have been a welcomed sight—but to the blockheads of the seven-pointed star they were a suspicious addition. He thanked the gods—both old and new—that the northerners for the moment outnumbered the Holy Hundred adherents for if it were the reverse, he feared there might have been outright dissension amongst the ranks.  
  
One night while encamping somewhere east of Riverrun, Jaime was making the rounds of the camp when he heard one of the Holy Fools, a Ser Lambert, note, “The Bloody Wolf sends us west with some of his northern barbarians to ensure our kills will feed his gods. I’ll not stain my sword with blood for their tree sacrifices,” which was a sentiment that many of his compatriots agreed with rather enthusiastically.  
  
Jaime was about to interject himself into the conversation when one of the elder Holy Fool knights, Ser Tion, stood by the fire and glared at his tongue wagging younger brethren in arms. Ser Tion as the eldest amongst them, who was likely older even than the ancient Lord Warden Bonifer Hasty himself, argued his case directly to his younger compatriot by challenging, “Have you no _honor_ in your vows to the Seven?! So we may have tree worshipers amongst us—some of our ancestors worshiped trees the same as them. What matters is that peace is brought to the west.”  
  
To this a few of the Holy Fools who had cheered for Ser Lambert seemed caught between the two men's perspectives.  
  
Ser Lambert stood, and began to take off his gauntlet.  
  
“You challenge _my_ honor you old fool!” dared the young Ser Lambert.  
  
Ser Tion rebutted, “Do not think for a moment of breaking the faith through dissension, for if you do then all order will break down!”  
  
“Perhaps the tree of order has grown _sick_ and _rotted_ with tolerance… mayhaps it’s time to remind the so-called First Men just exactly who conquered whom!” the young Ser Lambert was getting far too out of hand, and too many of the younger men were clapping and whooping at his sentiments.  
  
 _Thank the gods the northerners are on the other side of the encampment…_  
  
Jaime could keep his silence no longer, and he stepped into the circle round the campfire. “You choose a poor target, Ser Lambert, considering the North beat back all the Andals when they came.”  
  
He could sense he couldn’t convince Ser Lambert of anything, but the younger knight stood down. Ser Tion nodded to Jaime and he felt the need to mind the young Ser Lambert the rest of the evening--less he continue to share his treacherous opinions of their northern allies.  
  
The plan was they would ride as fast as they could on horseback—for Jaime couldn’t stand to be out of the West a day longer than necessary nor put up with the petty squabbles coming from his Holy Fools—when they happened to out ride their supply train Jaime found that they had to depend upon the hospitality of the Riverlords to host them. The Holy fools painted themselves as “Sons of the Warrior” on a “holy pilgrimage” to bring the “Father’s Justice” and create more “children of the Stranger”. Jaime loathed clothing himself in such demagoguery—but if it got him food he couldn’t complain.  
  
And as a backup if they could only come across an inn, he contemplated using his name to rack up debts to keep his army fed. Luckily hey only made the mistake of out riding the supply train twice and the Riverlords were more than happy to help “pilgrims”.  
  
The Northerners reaction to the use of the Holy Fools’ claims of pilgrimage was one of bemusement—many japing that if such mundane things were considered holy that if the High Septon shit his smallclothes they’d be preserved as holy relics. Jaime could appreciate their hearty laughter and thanked the gods that that was how they saw the Holy Fools.  
  
 _Better that than swords, maces, and axes…_  
  
Of all the places they broke their fast at, Riverrun proved to be the one stop of them all which opened the gates for them quite eagerly. Jaime was confused by such an action—but then it proved that all the naturally—born Tullys occupying it were not yet of the age of reason, leaving their pregnant Darry mother, the Lady Jeyne, as ruler of the castle in cooperation with Ser Utherydes and the Maester. Little Lady Vylott Tully found her place amongst the men in the hall a little too easily—charming them all with her smiles as she asked questions about their swords and axes—staring at them with wonder and awe. Her mother prompted the Septa to take little Vylott back to the nursery soon after the very young girl asked if any of the men could continue her knife throwing lessons.  
  
Lady Jeyne was quite gracious, laying before them a feast fit for such “sons on such a holy mission” as she put it despite having switched to winter rations. Wine and ale along with a good amount of food was wasted on his men—who were in no position to argue, given the meager meals they’d shared between Darry and Riverrun. Such an action struck Jaime oddly.  
  
 _She must want something very badly…_  
  
He was all too soon proven right, for when his men had begun to fall into a drunken sleep, Lady Jeyne Tully asked for his assistance in helping her to stand and beckoned him to follow her out into the halls.  
  
“Once again, good Ser, do I play hostess to Westerlanders…” she muttered as they walked.  
  
Jaime knew this thought was not to be responded to and was proven right as she turned to speak with him directly—once they had put enough of a distance between them and the Great Hall of Riverrun.  
  
The Lady seemed quite worried, “Ser Jaime, I understand that you have a desire to see justice done for your family. But I would ask you to do something for me in the west, if you are at all able. If you have any news of Ser Halmon Paege or his squire, could you send word to me by raven? They’re… kin of mine and I am quite concerned for them.”  
  
Jaime blinked—he had expected something more than just that, “That’s all?”  
  
She simply added, “If you come across them, making sure they returned hale and healthy would be preferable, but aye, that is all.”  
  
It was then Jaime felt something small brush against his legs in an effort to get to Lady Jeyne, and he turned to see the young lordling, Tristifer, dressed rather simply in a small shift. The red-headed boy looked up at his mother with his bright blue eyes and held out his arms to her. His mother bewailed at his having gotten out of the nursery.  
  
“Up, up!” the small toddler pronounced rather determinedly.  
  
Touching her rounding stomach, Lady Jeyne said, “You’re getting far too big for me to carry, Tristifer.”  
  
“I’ll get him,” said Jaime and he surprised the toddler by picking him up under his arms and leaning him against his shoulder.  
  
He wondered as he stared at the toddler who soon was all smiles and laughter, if this was what holding his niece would be like when he got to Casterly Rock. Gods, it reminded him of when he'd picked up his brother—only making him feel Tyrion’s loss all the more.  
  
 _Those guilty will pay for his murder... by my sword they'll pay..._  
  
He was glad when his party finally made it west of the Golden Tooth. The snows had slowed their journey, prompting some of the Holy Fools to question if they shouldn’t just find a lord’s hall while the Northerners laughed and called it “summer snows”. Jaime hated to think what the Northerners would have thought was actual winter weather.  
  
It wasn’t long before they were riding along the river road west of Sarsfield when the northern scouts more used to campaigns in such weather came across a band of smallfolk. They brought their horses alongside his own and spoke of what they had seen not a half-day’s ride ahead of them.  
  
A Northerner dressed in a surcoat displaying a bronze horse head stated, “They follow a man name Cade, who promises them milk, honey, and bread awaits them in the Riverlands.”  
  
 _They’re starving… good. They deserve to starve._  
  
“And what are their numbers?” he asked.  
  
“A few hundred—at most,” guessed another Northerner with the Stark direwolf on his surcoat.  
  
 _They must have splintered off from the main group then…_  
  
“It seems we have rebels to dispatch!” proclaimed Jaime and he spurred them on.  
  
They came upon the small group of rebel smallfolk in a small valley. They were ill-clothed and skeletal to the appearance, several were pale or blue skinned. Jaime imagined how they must have torn Tyrion to pieces to steel himself against the treacherous pity which reared its head in the moment before he charged them. The smallfolk were a pathetic mess trudging through the snows for the east. Upon sight of his riders, a few of them ran—while others just stood there waiting for the swords to come and accepting them graciously. It was less a battle and more just a simple slaughter. Blood stained the snow red and Jaime swung his sword wildly—eager not to leave a living sole in his path. A few of them fought back—weakly. Of those, a few surrounded his horse and attempted to pull him off. He hacked any hands which got too close for comfort—but those that took his feet from the stirrups and then smacked the horse into a panic managed to unseated Jaime enough to cause him to fall off the creature. Still he hacked at the mass of humans with his swords—the rest of his army obliging him and making the matter easier. Heads, hands and arms were sliced open or severed completely—it was a reaping fit for the Stranger.  
  
 _For Tyrion!_  
  
It was after he had put his blade through a woman who had tried to smash a rock at his helm that a cry pierced through the storm of steel and snow. Amongst this turmoil Jaime heard a cry go out and he saw a small child—barely older than the Tully lordling, barely taller than Tyrion had been as a child—clinging to the bloodied corpse of his dead mother. His mother’s blood stained his hands and face. The sight of the boy caught Jaime’s attention and made the slaughter around him seem to slow down and fade. In the next instant he was now on another battlefield, amongst a wood—a battlefield he had been on once before. He knelt down before a group of knights clad in white armor.  
  
Words he heard long ago echoed in his ears as he felt something touch his right shoulder.  
  
 _In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave._  
  
Then he felt the pressure move to his left shoulder.  
  
 _In the name of the Father I charge you to be just._  
  
Then the pressure returned to his right shoulder.  
  
 _In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent…_  
  
He looked down at that and saw the ground he was kneeling in stained with blood—his own hands dried and cracked from it.  
  
And suddenly he was back in the snowy Westerlands as time began again for him. The thin child prodded at his mother incessantly. Jaime then saw a horse running straight for the wailing child. In an instant he tossed aside his sword and dove at the child. The pain that he felt as the horse trampled over him bid the night come quicker.


	72. Benjen IV

********************************  
  
 **BENJEN**  
  
As he stalked through the trees, Benjen wished to the Gods it weren’t so fucking hot. He was sweating heavily and the humidity from the forest about them was too much to bear. The plan had to work, whatever Clegane said it had to work. He didn’t want to be carrying a bag full of animal fat that stank something awful across a bloody island for no fucking reason. They all spoke in barely above a whisper—even Clegane—less their approach be caught.  
  
“The last time we tried sneaking around from the back of an island, Greyjoy’s fleet set sail from the island,” scoffed Clegane as they waited for the blocked path to be cleared.  
  
“Don’t tempt the gods to repeat such luck,” rebutted Master Arthur.  
  
“Will you both keep the fuck quiet already!” snapped Dacey tempestuously as she hacked away vines which blocked their path. This was a new side to this she-bear—well nearly a woman—that he hadn’t seen before. In truth, when he had heard that she had volunteered for this mission upon hearing of it, Benjen had jumped at the chance to volunteer as well, if only to find out more about the she-bear who fascinated him so. A few of the boys who had accompanied her from Bear Island protested at the group being so small—to which she’d calmed them with a: “What are you all going to trot along after me making enough noise to wake the dead?”

 

There was just truly something about this lady that Benjen couldn’t put his finger on, but that made him smile all the less. Perhaps it was the fact that she didn’t act so much like a Lady at all—at least not around her entourage or Benjen, even with the false act having fallen away.  
  
“Why? With the noise you’re making, the pirates heard us coming long ago,” barked Clegane, who had to duck as a well-aimed fist came at his face. Before Benjen could take stock of what was happening Clegane had grabbed Dacey’s wrist and narrowed his eyes at the young she-bear.  
  
“I’ll only say this once you overgrown pup, let go of my hand and I won’t rough up your face to make you just as pretty on your left side as you are on your right,” snarled Dacey.  
  
The dog twisted Dacey’s arm, causing her to grimace slightly. “Try it,” threatened Clegane.  
  
At this Benjen put himself between the dog and the she-bear, as Master Arthur pulled Clegane back, they managed to separate the two of them this way.  
  
“Leave off of her!” growled Benjen.  
  
“We are not here to fight each other!” reminded Master Arthur in that moment.  
  
“No, but I’d like to add a few scars to that ugly face of his!” hissed Dacey as she moved to reproach Clegane—Benjen continued to act as a wall between them.  
  
“If either of you so much as lay a hand on the other, I swear by all the gods that I’ll beat you both with the flat of my sword until you learn to keep your hands off each other!” snapped Master Arthur as he struggled with the taller and younger man. Clegane though seemed to have gotten the message and stalked off back the way they came a bit—though not too far before Master Arthur went after him. Dacey meanwhile glowered at Benjen, who was confused by her reaction. He was clarified with a swift punch to his side.  
  
“The next time you get some fool idea like that, I’ll knock your head in with my own mace,” growled the she-bear before she returned to hacking rather violently.  
  
Benjen was beginning to think the gods were laughing at the predicament he found himself in. Hadn’t he done what Ned and his father had always said to do in ensuring a lady did not come to harm? His aching gut seemed to say otherwise.  
  
The vines were destroyed not long thereafter and it was left to Benjen to recollect Master Arthur and a much moodier Clegane and they were able to continue through the thick foliage.  
  
 _If only it would begin to rain—mayhaps that might cool things off…_  
  
Benjen was so preoccupied with his own discomfort that slugging the fat bag he didn’t have the opportunity to see before it happened a man came bounding out of the forest straight on top of him—as though he hadn’t been looking where he was going. Benjen dropped the bag as he was quickly locked into an outright wrestle as he heard swords being drawn. He feared the worst as he fought for dominance and was about to flip the man over to pin him when Dacey managed to clobber his head violently with her mace until he stopped moving. When it became clear that the man was the only one around and an unconscious one at that, Master Arthur pulled Dacey off of him so that Benjen could roll out from under the either dead or unconscious man—who turned out to be very young, hardly a man grown. His clothes were frayed, torn, and slightly small on him—looking as though he hadn’t seen a tailor in years.

 

Benjen gave his thanks to Dacey who nodded her head dutifully in response as she said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”  
  
Once it was determined that he was only knocked out, they weighed the benefits of possibly interrogating him. He was tied to a tree and gagged for good measure.  
  
How they roused the man came from Benjen sticking his hand into the greasy bag of rotting animal fat and holding the foul smelling stuff under the man’s nose. He had so quickly regained consciousness after that he’d nearly screamed, if it wasn’t for the gag Dacey had stuffed his mouth using a rag meant for the animal fat.  
  
“We have a few questions for you, answer them nicely and I’ll have the decency to knock you unconscious before slitting your throat. If not…” warned Dacey as she turned drawing the man’s attention to where Sandor was sitting, glaring at the man as he sharpened his sword.  
  
“Scream and I’ll take your fucking head off,” warned Sandor.  
  
Benjen was stunned at the willingness of sheer violence the two were willing to threaten, though the slight throbbing pain he felt around his jaw wasn’t complaining that the young man was in danger.  
  
The young man shook and nodded his head furiously as if to communicate that he wouldn’t scream. Master Arthur, while his back was turned to the young man gave both Dacey and Sandor an eye roll before turning to the man and rather gently taking out the gag. True to whatever word he had made, the dazed and bruised man didn’t scream.  
  
“What’s your name?” asked Master Arthur  
  
The man coughed up what sounded like a Harren before adding that he was a Saltcliffe.  
  
 _Ironborn…_  
  
Benjen then saw the fierce glare in Dacey’s eyes grow even stronger, and he recalled the young boys who’d traveled with her—who had lost their parents to Ironborn.  
  
“Last I recall, the King stripped all the Saltcliffes of their land,” commented Master Arthur.  
  
“Aye and our ‘King’ Euron promised my father he’d get it back for him… for a price: my service aboard his vessel for the rest of my days. My father unlike the rest of the cowardly stripped lords—thinking only to call your King the Storm God made flesh—hedged his bets promised him my service… and after delaying long enough to King Euron sold me, his own son and only heir, for what he didn’t have the decency to pay the Iron Price for,” spat the young Ironborn.  
  
“Not too happy to serve your pirate King?” asked Dacey with a certain edge to her voice.  
  
Harren Saltcliffe then laughed and said darkly, “What son can respect a father who pays in blood what should be paid in Iron? Besides, Euron doesn’t like anyone on his ship with a tongue—a man with a tongue tells too many secrets… and I rather like mine. You’d like it too if your pants were down… then I’d make a Salt wife out of you—”  
  
Dacey kneed his groin at that point.  
  
“Enough talking, I say kill the Iron scum,” declared Clegane, who was stayed only be a glare from Master Arthur.  
  
Saltcliffe however seemed ready to encourage this, prodding further, “Do it—I bet you hardly know how to use that little toothpick of a sword.”  
  
Benjen expected Clegane to have charged in anger at that, but instead all he did was laugh. It was the oddest thing Benjen had ever heard.  
  
“Quiet!” commanded Master Arthur, but still Clegane laughed—his laugher growing dangerously louder.  
  
Benjen was about to say something when Clegane then brought his sword up to Saltcliffe’s head and lifted his chin with the flat of his blade.  
  
“Is your life so worthless to you?” asked Clegane in a voice barely louder than a whisper.  
  
Saltcliffe seemed deflated and defeated in the next instant, saying nothing in response to this, merely looking off towards the rolling sea, visible in the distance.  
  
Just then Benjen heard shouting and the sound of dogs howling. It was at quite a distance but they were coming closer coming up the hill towards them. Benjen looked to Dacey who was readying her mace. Oddly enough it was Saltcliffe who was the most scared upon hearing the approach of these men.  
  
“Untie me… please!” pleaded Salcliffe as he attempted to slip out of his bonds—but found it far more difficult than he imagined.  
  
“We have to get going…now,” warned Master Arthur  
  
“But if we leave him tied up they’ll know we’re here,” argued Clegane with a dangerous look in his eye.  
  
“And if we slit his throat, they’ll know for sure.”  
  
Dacey responded quicker than them all, knocking Saltcliffe’s head in with her mace once again, untying him and kick him down the far side of the hill towards the sea.  
  
“There, I bought us some time,” she growled as she then signaled for them to follow.  
  
It was definitely one way to solve the situation.  
  
As they headed down the hill in the direction towards the lagoon’s shore, they swung wide to try and avoid the scent of the hounds—though they knew they couldn’t avoid them for forever, Benjen feared.

 

As they neared the shore, Benjen saw there were only a few men left guarding the ships moored in the lagoon. Benjen, Dacey, Clegane, and Arthur all crouched down low in the underbrush at the tree line and counted the ships. What men there were, were gathered around a campfire, laughing and drinking from bottles.

 

“There’s less here than Lord Baratheon said,” noted Dacey in a whisper.

 

“That could be good or bad…” commented Arthur.

 

They steadied themselves for the right moment to strike, as they did, a thankful cool wind blew and chilled the sweat on Benjen’s skin. Everything became quite quiet and what the men were saying became much easier to hear.

 

“And when the man opened his hand, the Red Cross had appeared upon his palm… his time had come…” said one of the older grizzled men, finishing up what had apparently been a scary story.

 

He was applauded with a roar of approval and the clinking of many bottles—the noise of which Benjen and the rest took advantage of to ready their weapons.

 

“Another!” called a younger one, with only a dusting upon his face.

 

“What kind?” asked the grizzled old man.

 

_Almost…_

 

“A sad tale's best for winter!” replied another—who was without an appearance of a beard.

 

“Aye… I have one… of sprites and ghouls and—”

 

“Does it take place on Sothroys?” interrupted another.

 

“Oh hush you!” dismissed the grizzled old man as the group laughed. It was then Benjen say the nod that it was time.

 

They burst forth as the small band of men laughed—coming out from the underbrush like the monsters they told their tales of. They caught their first kills nearly unawares, but their second kills put up more of a fight. In the end, before any could escape, they’d slaughtered the pirates all. This left a fire for them to work from.

 

Knowing that the other men with dogs would be back soon—or at least soon enough—Benjen set to work, fetching the bag of animal fat he’d left in the underbrush and taking the rags from Dacey and began to wrap the fat in the rags, tying off the end to give the little bag a tail from which to throw, he then dipped the rags into the fire and handed them off to Dacey and Arthur. Clegane had stubbornly refused to come near the fire—preferring to stand guard for the return of the other men.

 

“Fuck no—I’m not touching that thing if it were worth all the gold of Casterly Rock!” the Westerland warrior had protested.

 

_It would go faster with three…_

 

Needless to say, Dacey and Arthur made fast work, Dacey especially. They tossed the flaming rags onto the ships as best they could throw. A few times they missed on the ships anchored further out from the ones closer to shore—but that meant only running around to a different part of the lagoon to get a better toss from. Soon many a ship was beginning to be set aflame. He rolled a few extra to toss to be sure the ships would go up in flames, during which a most sickening sound could be heard echoing across the entire island.

 

It was a somewhat distant sound, but Benjen thought it might be the sound of what a man being torn to pieces by dogs might sound like. A chill ran down his back as howls renewed in the distance. They had to leave before the men returned.

 

The return trip would be the most perilous part of the mission—and why it had been considered so dangerous. Getting onto the island and destroying the ships was possible; getting off and living to speak about it—not so much. The sound of the returning dogs coming closer spurred them forward up a steeper slope further away from the howls and growls that echoed across the island. Spurred by such sounds, they rushed up the steep slope as quickly as they could—Clegane and Master Arthur lagging behind due to the weight of their armor. Dacey—an adept climber by the grace of her reach and stride, scurried up ahead of Benjen, who was left exposed between the two extremes—an eye on each.

 

As he grabbed ahold of the side of the rock face along which a narrow footpath had been discovered by Dacey in her sprint up the slope, Benjen couldn’t help but feel he was one slip away from tumbling to his death.

 

_A wolf is not made for climbing… running along the plains or up and down gently rolling hills and vales, aye—but up this steep side? Gods no!_

 

Slowly both Dacey and Master Arthur and Clegane vanished from both of his sights. A new sound of approaching howls and growls spurring Benjen on quicker, followed from behind the clash of steel and ringing of metal in the air.

 

As he made it to a veritable ledge which he’d seen Dacey pull herself up onto earlier and disappear from just as quickly, he looked down to see Clegane stab a man through with his sword who had been fighting Master Arthur. Benjen looked around quickly and saw no other men likely to appear out of the forest or along the side of the slope near them.

 

_They’ll catch up._

 

What worried him were the approaching growls and howls had in this time grown even closer. His blood rushed and he looked about himself for any sign of Dacey or her trail—but saw none due to it being rock and not dirt. Thankfully the ledge continued up to a path which seemed likely to climb the rest of the slope in a switchback manner to the top.

 

The barks and growls of the dogs grew ever closer as he came to the switchback and began pushing his way through ferns along the path to the top of the hill. He saw boot prints which he could only hope were Dacey’s. When he reached the top he realized why the sounds of dogs had grown closer—he’d approached them!

 

At the top he saw Dacey with her mace and dagger out, slashing and smashing her way out of a circle of ravenous hounds. Some tore at her flailing arms only to either lose an ear or a nose, others went for her legs to more success. It was at this point that Benjen charged forth with his own sword to slaughter the wild beasts that threatened to pull her down and pile on top of her.

 

As they culled the wild beasts or sent what few smart ones were left scampering off along the slope whimpering or off the hill two men who’d likely been lying in wait sprang forth from the trees and surprised them both with a renewal of attacks. Benjen was nearly out of breath, but his body kept moving nonetheless. The young man was fierce and strong, towering over Benjen with a height that almost made him feel a dwarf in comparison.

 

_Gods be with me…_

 

He saw but one hope of his making it out of this fight alive—he’d have to maneuver the fight so that the man would have his back to the edge of the hill. If he tumbled down the side, the fight would be over. With a few slashes, Benjen then dodged an obvious strike at his side and scurried further away from Dacey and closer to the edge. The man charge after him—likely blinded by the denial of bloodlust. Benjen pulled back his sword and readied to swing at just the right moment…

 

With a swing from the flat of his blade, the man was knocked off his balance and tumbled over the side of the hill. He tumbled either to his death or to a cursed and mangled existence—whichever it was, Benjen cared not at this moment. His thoughts returned to that of Clegane and Arthur, who he saw making their way up the switchback. Further away he heard more hounds and more men shouting and drawing closer. Benjen caught his breath and then looked to see Dacey in her battle.

 

Her movements were slowed—probably due to the bites the dogs had gotten on her. Benjen saw as she swung her mace hard and slashed with her dagger at the same time in on her man who took the opportunity to sneak his own dagger into her now undefended side just before her mace made contact with his head. She roared out in pain as the dagger went in deep where the belly met the side.

 

_Gods no!_

 

Hearing her roar, Benjen froze in fear for a moment before charging forth to take on the man who’d harmed her—only to watch as the man fell and Dacey sprang on top of him and stabbed him multiple times… over and over again, blood splattering up onto her madly. When she’d finished she took a deep breath and then keeled over to her side, just as Arthur and Clegane had caught up to them. Benjen rushed over to Dacey and looked at her wound, from which blood was nearly gushing forth all too quickly. The dagger was in deep to the hilt, and angled up in her body.

 

“I—I’m fine…” Dacey muttered exhaustedly.

 

“No you’re not,” countered Arthur as he joined Benjen.

 

Deftly Arthur instructed Benjen to use what spare rags he had left to wrap around where the blade was.

 

“Shouldn’t we take it out?” asked Benjen

 

“That’ll only bring more blood out, not less—and likely hurt her even more,” countered Arthur with a shake of his head.

 

“Hurry, I don’t like the sound of those blood bastards,” cautioned Clegane who had automatically returned to his position as guard.

 

It seemed to have gone by too fast for Benjen to comprehend, or mayhaps Arthur was just adept at tying bandages—either way, they were assisting Dacey

 

“You’re all fools, getting yourselves killed” she scolded as she leaned heavily on Benjen, her right arm draped around his shoulders. She then stumbled and nearly fell back to the ground on the first step.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” assured Benjen as he affixed his left hand to her hip to avoid her wound. He said it meeting her eyes, and a small moment passed which she seemed oddly appreciative of.

 

“T—thanks…” she mumbled tiredly.

 

The trek down the other side of the hill went by in a blur for Benjen—his mind too focused on reaching the overgrowth along the rocky beach they’d hidden their dingy in. He was aware of Arthur and Clegane running alongside him, and his and Dacey’s slower but still hurrying steps, but it seemed almost a few moments had gone by before they were at the dingy, getting in, with Benjen volunteering to row as both Arthur and Clegane were exhausted from the run in their light armor. Dacey was laid across the seats, by this time the blood from her wound having stained her makeshift bandages a dark purple red as it appeared in the moonlight. Her skin had grown pale from what he’d seen.

 

_We’ll make it… we’ll make it!_

 

He then set to rowing as fast as his back would allow him to go without falling out of his seat.

 

_Pull, lean, feather… pull lean feather…_

 

He repeated the instructions he’d learned from Seaworth all that time ago on the basics of rowing that he’d tried on the White Knife. Now he was gliding better across the waves as best he could. He did his best to aim in a diagonal when departing the shore—not wanting to have their boat flipped by an oncoming wave. Up and down they rolled. Arthur spent his time tending to Dacey, whose body was now shaking rather violently. Clegane offered to switch at some point across the waves, but Benjen refused.

 

_We can’t spare the time to switch rowers…_

 

“We’ll get there, Dacey,” Benjen called out.

 

_I promise…_

 

They would make it. Benjen was spent and near ready to collapse as he landed their dingy back alongside their ship. It was only then as he heaved and puffed for breath that he saw that Dacey’s body had gone still and was now as white as a bone.

 

They had made it, but she hadn’t. He had failed her. It was then he keeled over himself into the darkness of exhaustion.


	73. Edmure V

**EDMURE**

 

It had been luck that was with them… aye—ill luck. Oh, the plan to draw the tiny fleet of Tyrosh into a narrow straight where the rest of the Royal Navy lay in wait to trap them had worked well enough—but as their ship sailing as fast as the winds could allow it was approaching the designated straight the sound of battle in the distance echoed across the straight. The captain called his uncle over to have a look through his Myrish Eyes. A tense moment passed as all those above deck—mostly deckhands, a few Riverlander knights, and the remaining elder squires of his uncle—all strained to discern with their naked eyes the battle ahead of them.

 

“Damn Greyjoy! Damn him to the deepest of the Seven Hells!” called out his uncle as he returned the Myrish Eye to the captain and then huffed across the deck towards the stairs leading below deck. As he strode he called to Lymond and Liam to alert the men down below to be ready for an attack, his uncle then called for Brynden to assist him with his leathers.

 

This left Edmure above deck with Marq Piper and Hugo Vance. Hugo looked on in a kind of wonder at the fight they were sailing into—he’d only just healed from his wounds at the beach. Marq meanwhile was doing his best not to look ahead. Without saying anything Edmure could understand what they were both feeling—after all, he felt it too. Fighting no longer seemed to promise them the same things anymore like it had at the beginning of their voyage.

 

_Not when Perwyn, Hendry, and Ronald died…_

 

“Do you think Greyjoy is among them?” asked Hugo darkly.

 

“Mayhaps…” replied Edmure.

 

Or he could be biding his time on some other stepstone—truly they didn’t know where the squid had vanished to after he stole their dingy. They had tried to give chase but he’d somehow eluded them. The ship and the coastline of the stepstone had been searched in response, but Greyjoy had managed to slip past them all—seemingly to have disappeared into thin air. His dingy was found abandoned on their journey to Dorne to meet with Lord Baratheon to receive further instructions and also for Uncle to leave the egg hidden on dry land.

 

Even now as he thought of Dorne, Edmure couldn’t help but remember the burnt wasteland Plankytown had been. The Dornish had seen to burying or burning their dead, but the charred and smoking ruins of the overgrown shipping town remained as a stern reminder of the destructive power of the pirates. Blackened stone towers, ashen winds, and the gray sky had cast a lonely desolate feeling to the mostly abandoned remains of the town from what Edmure had seen as they’d sailed past.

 

“I get eerie feelings about having that egg surrounded by so much water,” his uncle had said.

 

Edmure couldn’t blame him—one look at the egg was enough to make a dark chill run up and down his spine. It seemed something almost primeval.

 

Edmure was brought back to the present with Hugo’s black reply of “Good. I’ll kill him… for Ronald.”

 

“How can you even hope for that?! Do you wish to die that much?” challenged an upset Marq.

 

“And let Ronald’s death go unanswered?” countered Hugo.

 

“But what of your family, Hugo? Isn’t it enough to have lost your brother… should they lose you too?” interjected Edmure… his mind racing back

 

“If I’m to die anyway… let it be with my sword in Greyjoy,” harrumphed Hugo.

 

As much as Edmure hated to admit it, Hugo did have a point, about it being likely to die anyway. The plan had been to draw the Tyroshi refitted merchant-vessel navy into a trap—a few of Euron Greyjoy’s pirates attacking the navy laying in wait hadn’t been part of the plan at all.

 

Confronted as he was with the likelihood of near death, Edmure found thinking on Asha to be calming… he wondered just what she was doing.

 

_Likely throwing axes…_

 

He could just see her in the yard, dressed all in his old clothes, sweaty, her hair a tousled mess… either it was his memory or Edmure was misremembering it—but she seemed in his mind’s eye to almost have a certain glow. It was nothing like the holy seven angels were depicted as having, but instead simply a vitality… an energy that seemed to radiate and give life to everything around it—life that he so desperately wanted, now as he felt surrounded by death, life that she deserved to live, and he would face death to ensure she did.

 

_For her… I’ll fight for her! Warrior may by blows be swift and sharp…_

 

The Tyroshi navy, for being made of former trading vessels recommissioned into a navy at least had one thing going for them: they were clever. Instead of trying to board immediately and to fight their way with daring it seemed, the Tyrosh—whose ships seemed very lightly crewed—used archers to try and kill as many above deck that they could. They volleyed arrows as men came to take the ship, giving the men the opportunity to journey to their ship with as minimal amount of resistance possible. Edmure and many others had had to duck behind things to keep from being hit.

 

As the Tyroshi men began to climb over the gunwales the arrows stopped and Edmure signaled to the majority of men waiting below decks that now was the time to come up. Not long after he had done so, did he have to draw his sword and meet steel on steel with a man with dyed green hair, one of the few to make it onto the deck. His uncle had had him practice battling aboard ship, aye, but to now have available to him all the given area of the deck as a potential part of his battling was strange. The two Sandsnakes seemed to relish the environment—jumping up onto gunwales, swinging around the mast for a feint. Catching their acrobatics out of the corner of his eye almost cost Edmure a wound. Edmure soon realized that this first wave couldn’t possibly overtake them with how they were beating them back.

 

_But what of the subsequent waves?_

_We’ll beat them… we have to!_

 

And so the exacting and long battle of the straight continued. The attempts to board their ship grew less and less daring and much easier to fend off. The largest scare came from when the captain was killed, leaving the wheel controlling the steer board unmanned. It was Uncle Brynden who took control, taking advantage of the opportunity to ram a Tyroshi ship before one of the rowers took control of steering.

 

As the day dragged on Edmure joined Marq and the others in using spare oars to knock off pirates and Tyroshi attempting to board their vessel. In a way it almost became a game to them as they scurried along the starboard side knocking men in the head or at their hands—sometimes the men daring and grabbing at the oar to try and pull it from their collective grasps.

 

While they managed to keep the majority of the men off the ship, when Edmure felt his hair grabbed, his hands pulled from the oar and a knife put to his throat when he and Marq had scurried to a more abandoned part of the deck, he knew almost at once that they hadn’t been completely successful.

 

Immediately he saw his uncle move to charge with his sword and Edmure felt a little nick and a small trickle of blood flow down his neck.

 

“Any closer and that’ll be the end of your line, Tully!” spat the man.

 

Edmure breathed heavily and gulped. The blood now trickled between his leathers and his shirt beneath.

 

“Leave him be, Greyjoy!” called out Uncle Brynden.

 

“’Fraid not—at least not until I get something back that belongs me me. We trade and then I leave—simple enough—and then you get the boy back—not before,” Edmure heard the man growl as he pulled at Edmure’s hair once again, causing Edmure to groan at the pain caused by him once again.

Edmure saw the rest of his fellow squires pale, but his Uncle didn’t seem to show any fear as he calmly asked, “What do you want?”

 

“My egg! I know for a fucking fact you have it somewhere aboard this ship!” shouted the man he could only assume was Greyjoy.

 

Edmure’s eyes grew wide as he stared at his Uncle. He recalled quite clearly where the egg was hidden—locked away in a chest with several other items to be delivered to Aunt Jeyne in the case of his Uncle’s death.

 

_I’m as good as dead… but Asha… Asha!_

 

He must have screamed something for the next instant he felt the knife falter from his neck for just an instant. It was just enough for Edmure to elbow the man in what he hoped was near the groin, loosening the hold Greyjoy had on him for just long enough that Edmure could slip out of his grasp. The next moment was a blur as Edmure tried to make sense of what seemed to him to be a spinning world. He heard the clang of steel upon steel and turned to see his uncle battling a man with dark unruly hair and an eye patch. His Uncle’s swings and thrusts were all expertly well aimed, but the man with the eye patch merely laughed them off with parries and an agility that Edmure envied. All around the deck the two battled, Edmure saw a few knights try and join the fight, only to see Greyjoy deflect and scurry to a section of the deck with less potential foes. It seemed Greyjoy was cornered by his Uncle.

 

_Beat him Uncle, beat him!_

 

But then Hugo Vance—with an angry look to his eye—jumped forward to try and stab Greyjoy. In the next moment an arm clutching a sword fell to the ground followed not that long thereafter by a skewered squid. Uncle Brynden had killed Greyjoy—but not before the squid could slice off Hugo’s sword arm at the elbow.


	74. Eddard V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might be confused how a new chapter has appeared, but it isn't #74. I realized a small chapter needed to be added between two past chapters and I've "gone back" to add in the material. The new Sandor chapter (#70) is the new material that's been posted.

  
**EDDARD**  
  
When the Tyroshi navy had been narrowly defeated at the Battle of the Straits, Eddard hadn’t expected such good news as the death of Euron Greyjoy—but by the gods they had been given such a blessing and he’d had hoped the war to end with the death of Greyjoy and for the Tyroshi to be dealt with more diplomatically—war was the last thing he wanted to deal with, Benjen after all had assured him after all that the men who’d attacked them had been pirates hiding under the Tyroshi speared pear, and it had been Euron Greyjoy himself who’d sold Maege Mormont and her people into slavery. However Ned was wrong to presume so much—quite wrong. Robert was only encouraged by such a victory and demanded plans on the siege of Tyrosh to be drawn up immediately. When he entered at the small council chamber, Robert had burst out laughing at the sight of Bloodraven’s raven.  
  
“Found a new friend, Ned! Should your wife be jealous?” Robert had chortled as Ned approached. The raven had cawed in response--Ned not wishing to know what Bloodraven might have wanted to say in response.  
  
The rest of the small council—which now included Princess Elia as Lady Diplomat, a recognition for her assistance in bringing Lys and Myr into a rough alliance with the Iron Throne, a silver pin of a scroll being her new emblem—chuckled nervously as Ned took his own seat at the great weirwood table.  
  
"Getting in touch with your Blackwood roots, then," commented his goodfather. The mention of the family sending worried looks to faces like Lord Chelsted.  
  
Had Brandon or Lyanna been in this position they would have laughed at the likely irony of the rest of the small council likely thinking him Bloodraven reborn with this pet raven.  
  
 _If only they knew the truth…_  
  
The bird flew off his shoulder and over to a statue of a dragon upon which it perched. As it did so Ned explained, “It found me at the Neck, your grace, and despite my best effort it follows me wherever I go. Ignore it.”  
  
“So long as it doesn’t shit all over the war plans, I believe we’ll be fine,” dismissed Robert affably.  
  
“You still plan for war?” questioned Ned soberly.  
  
That only began Robert in a new rage, “Of course! Greyjoy may be dead, but he wasn’t the root of the problem—he was only a side effect. Ever since the Blackfyres fled across the Narrow Sea the Free Cities have played their little games to try and influence the Iron Throne just as much as the bloody Seven Kingdoms vie for power themselves—whether it be for our wine, warriors, timber, stone, or gold, they’ve sought to force our hand and control us from time to time. They even call us… what was it you said Princess Elia?”  
  
“The Sunset Kingdoms,” answered the Princess, though she seemed quite uneasy to admit it.  
  
Robert nodded and continued, “Yes, yes, that was it. We’re seen as a backwater to them—a bloody backwater! We’re someone to provoke when they’re bored with fighting with themselves, to host pretenders to our throne, and put us in debt even further!”  
  
“Who cares what foreign minds and hearts believe? The whole Narrow Sea's between us,” scoffed Ned, still uneasy about the entire affair.  
  
“I do, if such games threaten the peace of my realm. And the Narrow Sea is just that--narrow! I’d be a fool of a King to let any Free City think they can tweak our nose so much and not expect a response in return. No, Tyrosh needs to be taught a lesson. One should not provoke the Iron Throne and expect only a laugh in return. It was Tyrosh who hired the pirates, and it’ll be Tyrosh who’ll be our example to the rest of them.”  
  
Ned, for his part only hoped that the siege could be as short as possible, so that the suffering could be limited. That was why he turned to the best siege craftsmen and talking for the best designs that would bring the stone walls of Tyrosh down and ending the war as quickly as possible. He’d do his duty to the realm no matter what. He recalled the drawings one Ser Jarmon Buckwell had shown him of a new type of ship and had employed him to design a more efficient siege weapon to bring down the walls, and hired two hundred and thirty three carpenters and laborers total to build seven of the damn things. Ser Buckwell had responded by providing a design for a stone-thrower. It depended upon something called a “counterweight” which would allow it to throw stones as heavy as three hundred pounds or a little more farther into the field of battle than the current model which relied on twisted ropes. Part of the design which seemed the most interesting to Ned was that the stones would be held in a large sling.  
  
Without a navy to oppose them—as Pentos and Myr were currently occupied in their own end of the war, the tired Royal Navy under protection from Lyseni ships sailed them from the capital to the outskirts of the island Tyrosh was built upon. The island was quickly blockaded with the Lyseni serving as their eyes and ears should Pentos be provoked. Ned had wanted to land there to sweep the island clean and ensure that Tyrosh hadn’t hired any sellswords to hide in what small woods was on the island and also to take advantage of the same forest to build the siege craft his men had designed and gather the stone needed. The small wood proved to be clear of everything but smallfolk and bandits—the latter of which Robert saw hung.  
  
While the carpenters built their war machines, Ned allowed himself to examine the defenses of Tyrosh itself. From what the Myrish eyes told him, he could see that Tyrosh was built atop a grand hill with one side atop a cliff that dropped straight into the sea. It was clearly a city that had began as a military outpost having two sets of walls—a gray outer wall of stone and mortar, and an inner wall showing the Valyrian origins of dragonfire fused black dragonstone. Along each set of walls were a series of watchtowers no doubt manned with men with crossbows. The outer walls would fall quickly, Ned predicted. It was the inner walls which worried him. Rock held together with mortar would crumble easily—but fused rock? Where were its weaknesses? What was worse was that the palace of the Archon and all the nobles was ensconced by the inner walls. Taking the outer walls would only bring the merchants and the smallfolk under their dominion. That was where Ned’s plan to have his counterweight stonethrowers destroy the palace of the Archon would hopefully crush the morale of the Tyroshi elite and end this siege.  
  
The first place to be taken was the harbor, which was largely outside of the city walls. Stannis proved his might here by setting men to take the Bleeding Tower in the night—after which they put a specific colored lantern at the top to show it had been taken, allowing the navy to land a lot of men who’d fought at the Battle of the Straight who here were led by Ser Barristan Selmy and Stannis. The smallfolk who lived outside the walls had fled to the city gates in a panic—but the gates remained closed to them, leaving them to their mercy. When brought forth to him, Robert said that the smallfolk were to be kept in a camp under guard—allowed to hunt and gather provisions for themselves in the forest—which Ned came to learn had made Robert instantly popular as the forest along with several tracks of land had been under forest law and could only be hunted in by the Archon and other Tyroshi nobles, which had made the smallfolk dependent upon the food brought in by the trade the Tyroshi nobles brought in.  
  
As the siege began and the army encamped outside, messengers were exchanged under a white flag—the first one acting as a warning to the besiegers that Tyrosh had friends and allies abroad who would not take kindly to the Sunset Kingdoms interference with Tyroshi concerns.  
  
“And how exactly have we interfered with Tyroshi concerns?” challenged Robert when the messenger had sat at his tent with an untouched cup of wine before him.  
  
“By expelling our merchants, seizing their wares, and killing our citizens in an unprovoked manner!” charged the blue-haired messenger wearing a doublet made completely of Myrish lace.  
  
Robert had grown red-faced after this and shouted, “After you sent ships to sack my cities! What did your Archon think he’d get in response?”  
  
The messenger persisted, pulling out a scroll from his sleeve which looked old and weathered and contained a black seal with a three headed dragon upon it, “We didn’t attack your navy until you broke the treaty signed at the end of the Ninepenny War! If you look here, our merchants were assured their goods and lives, even in case of—”  
  
At this Robert had grabbed his warhammer and swung it straight through the old document—destroying his table and upsetting the wine as he did so and just narrowly missing the fingers of the Archon’s messenger. Robert then turned to the blue-haired man and with a glower in his eyes he warned, “Don’t quote laws to a man with a warhammer and swords!”  
  
Denys had been livid with Robert once the Archon’s messenger had left.  
  
The Young Falcon was sharp in his critique, “That’s exactly the attitude that Lys and Myr would abandon us over if they hear about that!”  
  
“And who’s going to tell them, you?” bellowed Robert as he took a swig of wine straight from the flagon.  
  
“No, but I thought you’d conduct yourself with a little more honor,” snapped Denys discontentedly as he met Robert’s glare with a strong look all his own.  
  
“How didn’t I conduct myself with honor? I allowed the man to leave my tent alive, didn’t I?” rounded Robert before finishing off the flagon and tossing it to a squire “Besides did Tyrosh sail with honor when they attacked Ned’s brother? They don’t deserve any grace as far as I’m concerned!”  
  
“That was pirates under the Tyroshi banner, your grace,” corrected Ned somberly.  
  
“Oh fuck with the ‘your grace’s, Ned—I’m sick of hearing ‘your grace’ this and ‘your grace’ that. For the last six or seven fucking years I’ve heard nothing but ‘your grace’. We’re at war again—we’re all brothers in arms now!” shouted Robert boisterously.  
  
Aye, they were all brothers in arms—suffering the same fortunes now.  
  
The towers commanding the outer wall’s harbor gate were the first to be destroyed by his counterweight stonethrowers—after a few attempts to aim them just so at the gate and missing by overshooting farther than Ned had expected them to hit—on had even thrown a stone straight into the fused inner wall of Tyrosh where Ned saw that the wall had merely soaked up the throw by having the thrown stone embedded into the wall—but doing nothing beyond the impact of the stone—or at least that’s what the Myrish eyes told him. Against normal stone walls, the towers had been knocked down, taking with them sections of the wall that made the gate collapse.  
  
“Seven Hells, Ned!” exclaimed Robert before they would ride off to rally men to take through the gate.  
  
“What did you call them?” asked Denys—a pale look having overtaken his face.  
  
“Counterweight stonethrowers,” admitted Ned, recalling what Ser Jarmon had written on his designs.  
  
“Fuck that! They just tore into that wall like a wolf into its prey! No… they’re warwolves—that’s what they are,” stated Robert with a rather pleased grin, and Ned cringed hoping the name wouldn’t stick.  
  
A few more throws of the stonethrowing “warwolves” brought down a larger portion of the outer wall, leaving the outer city to be theirs for the taking. Waiting behind the outer walls had been a company of sellswords which Robert had had an exhilarating time meeting in battle. The result after the bloodbath had been concluded was as much as Ned had expected as all the high nobles had ensconced themselves behind the inner walls leaving the issue of the smallfolk and poorer merchants to them. Robert found it more difficult to handle the issue of these smallfolk who were now a moon or two on low rations and eager for food. The more Ned rode through the streets of Tyrosh which were beyond the reach of the inner walls, the more Ned saw the necessity to bring this siege to a quick end. Thankfully Lys managed to assist them by arranging shipments of smoked meats to help support the population. The only question then came down to how much had Tyrosh stored behind their inner walls. Likewise the fused dragonstone continued to soak up the stones thrown at it. Afforded a better examination of the walls due to his proximity Ned admitted it was unlike anything Ned had ever seen—the inner walls had the three hundred pound rocks lodged in them—but without any cracks stemming off from the impact. It sent a shiver down Ned’s spine to see such an example of the power of dragonfire and for once he was glad to be living in an age when the dragons were all dead.  
  
“If the bloody Ninepenny kings took Tyrosh, then so can I!” roared Robert when he saw the inner wall’s fortitude for himself.  
  
The stonethrowers took aim at the Archon’s palace, pummeling the structure into a horrid ruin but still the gate to the inner city remained locked, and then one night as Ned was pouring over a map he’d made of the defenses to see where the best place to send up siege ladders would be that he heard the voice of the old Great Bastard.  
  
“Trying to get over the walls would be suicide,” counseled the man who wasn’t really there. Ned didn’t bother even looking up—figuring that looking like he was talking to a raven should any unwelcome eyes be near his tent would be unwise.  
  
“What do we do then, dig under them?” challenged Ned  
  
The albino answered, “Aye. Send a few scouts to the foot of the cliffs at low tide.”  
  
The following afternoon his men reported that there was an entrance to a cave that could only be accessed at low tide—a cave which seemed to lead to a series of tunnels and stairs that journeyed up through the rock—possibly to the heart of the inner city itself. Ned regretted pummeling the Archon’s palace in that instant.


	75. Denys VII

**  
**DENYS  
  
He had not wanted to come to Tyrosh in the first place, but he had done his duty nonetheless, heading the command of Vale bannermen he'd called up to travel with Robert to the Free City. Coming to Tyrosh he had spoken with Ned and Robert about the logistics of the likely siege, and sometimes along with Ned, asked Robert to consider what he wanted to leave behind him after "leveling Tyrosh with his warhammer".  
  
"We cannot claim it as part of Westeros--we do that and our alliances with Myr and Lys would end and the entirety of the Free Cities would descend upon us."  
  
Robert had tossed his empty cup upon hearing this, shouting, "We can't just blood leave it to be taken over by yet more blasted wastrels. First the Ninepenny War, now Greyjoy... leaving them as they were would fuck the Iron Throne over as much as it has in the past!"  
  
Denys however would not be cowed, though he'd accept the realities put before him, "Then we need to establish some sort of government that is both friendly towards us, to keep trade going through the Stepstones, and has a counterweight upon them should they think of betraying us."  
  
Robert tossed out the idea, "Why not establish our own city on one of these godsforesaken rocks?"  
  
Robert had a good mind, when he was inclined to use it, which unfortunately wasn't often. The idea while credible would be incredibly hard to pull off.  
  
"The idea is a good one, but..." began Ned.  
  
"But?" pressed Robert, his head turning to Ned. The blasted raven was still upon his shoulder.  
  
"But one doesn't just snap one's fingers and have a city appear out of thin air, your grace. And who would rule this city?" he'd pressed, only to receive a laugh from Robert in response. Ned shared a nervous look with Denys.  
  
"That's what you and the rest of the Small Council can decide later on. What's important is that we smash Tyrosh to pieces! I want no Free City to even consider being a thorn in the side of the Iron Throne for centuries to come!" emphasized Robert with such ferocity that Denys still jutted back in surprise at the thought of it.  
  
 _If only he'd give more thought to this..._  
  
The outer city had fallen relatively easily thanks to Ned's new "warwolves" as they were being called, but the inner city refused to budge--and their fused dragonstone walls kept standing despite the rocks embedded into them--refusing to crack or show weakness. Denys prayed to the Father that the Tyroshi would see reason and renew negotiations so that more of their army wouldn't have to suffer storming those damn black dragonstone walls. Many men would die... hell, he might die as well, leaving only two very young sons and poor pregnant Lysa to deal with the aftermath.  
  
The more Denys thought on it, Edmyn, named as much in honor of Ned as he was of Lysa's ancestor, was only a little older than Jasper had been when Denys had last gone to war. He was an Arryn in all but the coloring of his hair--which seemed more a blend of Denys' blond and Lysa's auburn into a reddish gold that shone as brightly as well polished copper. Edmyn was active and always scurrying about the Eyrie, eager to learn and ask questions, and reminded Denys a bit of himself when he was his age and a bit of Jasper. He shuddered when he considered the possibility of perhaps another pox carrying him off like Jasper had.  
  
Robert, his younger son by two years was sickly and the maester was surprised he'd lived as long as he had. He took after Lysa's Tully looks quite distinctively, and clung to her like a vine might to a castle wall. It had been growing time to begin weaning him from Lysa's breast--what with the birth of Minisa so imminent at the time, but Lysa had indulged the small infant, even while Minisa suckled at her other breast. It was one of the reasons Lysa had blamed herself for Minisa's death--fearing that she had robbed her daughter of life, in favor of her sickly brother.  
  
Minisa was his most recent babe with Lysa, and had left this world not long after learning of it. The maester simply said that Minisa had been quite small for a babe her age, and had had poor circulation of her blood with her hands and feet always freezing. Some babes were simply not meant to live long, and that was that. She had died not long before he'd left for King's Landing, barely half a year old.  
  
Lysa had been so distraught with the Stranger taking Minisa she had shared his bed for a week afterwards. Denys had been reluctant to leave her with her in such a state, but Robert and his duty as Lord Justice had called him away--and he'd already delayed enough as it was when she had grown ill. He still recalled how angry Lysa had been when she had entered his room one night to find his trunk packed and ready to go. She'd been impetuous and rash--accusing him of leaving his family just when it needed him the most, of not caring for her. He'd stopped her complaints with a kiss then--breaking it off after the rough act had begun to deepen as Lysa had lost herself in it. He told her that that should show his feelings for her. She'd used that against him the next moment, and in a desperate attempt to keep him longer had initiated a dance of bodies they knew quite well at this point. The news of the fall of Plankytown to the pirates, bringing fear of more war, and war reminding Denys of the last time he had left a wife and children behind in the Vale, and so he'd not stopped the dance despite his better judgment. And now Lysa wrote to say that she had quickened with his seed yet again from their last coupling. Any other lord would be glad to hear of his wife being so fertile, but Denys now had another worry--that Lysa was so eager to keep up with her sister that she was ruining her health to do it.  
  
 _Too quick... Lysa isn't spacing these babes out at all... she is going to kill herself doing this..._  
  
He was disturbed from his contemplations on his family troubles--problems he would prefer by far to be dealing with rather than the headaches Robert's invasion of Tyrosh had brought him--when his squire, Lord Yohn Royce's third son, Waymar, came in stating that Lord Stark had wished to see him.  
  
Ned entered with the gigantic black raven perched on his shoulder and a half worried look in his eyes. Denys eyed the black raven warily as it seemed to stare right through him pertinently. The firm gaze of the black glossy eyes of the bird sent a chill down Denys' spine. He didn't like that bird and he didn't like what it being on Ned's shoulder implied.  
  
Ned oddly ended the silence by beginning with a sigh, "I believe my men found a tunnel into the inner city."  
  
"Gods be praised," said Denys with relief, rubbing his hand on his forehead to try and dispel the headaches which clouded his mind from thinking on anything but worries.  
  
"But it might be caved in," warned Ned in reply.  
  
"If it is, my Valemen can clear it out," assured Denys, eager to find someway of avoiding climbing over the bloody walls. Good strong Valemen could clear any blocked tunnel easily.  
  
The look on Ned's face seemed to feel relieved, but before Denys could allow him to depart he caught the younger lord's arm and asked, "Next time, Ned promise me we'll work together after this to keep Robert's war lust in check... this desire to see Tyrosh pummeled into the ground... it's not healthy... it's not right."  
  
"What is your meaning?" asked Ned.  
  
"I..." began Denys.  
  
But he couldn't say it. The raven glared at him in that instance. It was on the tip of his tongue but it had a hard time coming out--as though it didn't want to come out. He could see the enthusiastic mad fury with which Robert had conducted himself throughout the siege and it scared him. Gods did it scare him. And yet he couldn't say it, he couldn't suggest that Robert's war lust might be from his grandmother's lineage.  
  
All that he was able to stumble out of his mouth was, "I only hope that this will quench his war lust... gods, I pray it does."  
  
"As do I," replied Ned softly. The raven then gave a caw which drew Ned's attention. Denys noticed that Ned noticed his own attention. Ned seemed to pale in that instance before taking a silent departure while the raven continued to make noise the entire way.  
  
Denys was left wondering why Ned had looked so worried at that sight. It couldn't be because.  
  
 _No, Ned is no skinchanger. I know Ned._  
  
 _Just like you know Robert?_  
  
Denys shook his head. He thought back to the boys who'd thrown a ruined crop of oranges in the great hall of the Eyrie, the two boys who were always eager for his opinion when he had one to give, and the two boys who he'd sparred with as he learned to hold a sword. Gods no, they still were that. Right?  
  
The tunnel it seemed was blocked at a certain point, so Denys and his Valemen were sent up to clear it away--what they found shocked them. Apparently the Tyroshi palace had an underground portion, which had been collapsed into, killing all the nobility that had gathered there. The bones and blood that had been found as they burrowed deeper and deeper into the collapsed palace from underneath suggested that few if any survived. The hardest moment for Denys came when he saw a boy with copper hair and dressed in blue silks among the wreckage. He'd nearly gone charging down the tunnel steps and into the sea upon that sight--he might have if the blasted raven hadn't flown in his face at that moment, reminding him that the boy wasn't Edmyn.  
  
 _It wasn't Edmyn... it wasn't Edmyn!_  
  
A few survivors were found among the wreckage--too badly hurt or too young and small to be of any use as to giving any information. Most of them died not long after being pulled from the wreckage, but one girl seemed to have a chance. Ned seemed most affected by the girl--hovering over her when he thought no one was looking, and was now apt to join Robert in drinking though never to Robert's excesses whenever more bodies were brought down the tunnel's steps. Soon it became an endless parade of dragging dead bodies. There was no room to bury them and the amount of lumber required for burning them all would have been tremendous. Soon Stannis was charging some of his ships with the duty of taking ships pull of bodies to be tossed into the sea. Nightmares of burning bodies and bloodied trees troubled Denys' sleep, and his longing for Lysa increased.  
  
They managed to carve a tunnel through the debris of the palace that eventually cut up into the inner city where scouts were sent to look and see what remained of the resistance. The scouts came back unharmed with news that only the guards remained defending the Archon and his family who in response to the destruction of the palace had holed up in manse elsewhere and hadn't been seen for weeks. An arrangement was made with the guards--ignoring addressing the Archon altogether, and in exchange for a peaceful surrender, they would help deal with the aftermath.  
  
When Denys traveled through the inner city he failed to have comprehended just the amount of devastation Ned's warwolves had wrought. It was almost as bad as what reports of Plankytown were like.  
  
Robert rode through the gates of the Inner City proudly and upon a horse flying his banner proudly. The procession had all the pageantry of a royal conquest, though the effects made Denys sick. Behind them and a contingent of their army was a swarm of curious Tyroshi who had never been allowed to enter the "black citadel" as the inner city had been called.  
  
Before the parade could disperse, Robert came to the edge of the palace complex, urged his horse forward up onto a small pile of rubble, and boomed loudly for all to hear, "This is what happens to those who seek to stab the Stag! The Iron Throne will not tolerate those who seek to undermine our own authority in our own lands--such is a recipe for disaster! Tell the whole of Essos that the Iron Throne sleeps no longer, and if they seek to do us wrong--we shall repay them in kind with this!"  
  
Robert gestured to the devastation surrounding him and the utter silence of everyone collected for the affair unnerved Denys.  
  
What manses that stood were searched, the crowds eagerly searching the city--officially to know what had happened to the Archon and his family, while actually looting the houses of the rich for their wealth. Ned's raven during this half-organized chaos flying into a small one at some point. Ned had at first ignored it, and Denys had felt safe seeing that. And then the raven had returned, landing on Ned's shoulder again and suddenly, Ned felt they should enter the very same manse the raven had flown into--pulling Robert and Denys away from the processional with Ser Barristan and Ser Mark.  
  
Denys felt a chill for the rest of the day. He couldn't look Ned in the eye at that point. There were old superstitions that if you looked a skinchanger in the eye that they could control you.  
  
 _What am I thinking? This is Ned._  
  
The manse was half-ruined and half-pilfered through already. Several freed slaves and smallfolk dropped what they were carrying when they saw Robert walking through the manse. and eventually the bodies of the Archon and his family were found brutally killed, broken, and stuffed into a small room for storage. Ned's raven had been found outside the door picking at the dried blood had trickled down the marble floors from the hole in the wall that was a room. A ghastly stench emanating the moment the door was pulled back, and a decaying arm with white maggots feasting upon the flesh fell to the dried blood pool. Inside the room a torch illuminated a tall pile of severed body parts--cut so as to fit inside the room. There appeared to be parts of a man, a woman and a few boys and girls of various ages and sizes.  
  
The guards reaction to seeing the remains of Archon and his family were one of madness. They were enraged, some bewailing and throwing themselves upon the ground. Others looking around suspiciously and soon beginning a short round of accusations and killings that their knights had to put a stop to. The slaves and smallfolk of the city could care less, more obsessed with the riches they took from the noble houses. It was absolute chaos--that's what it was. A smattering a noble survivors were found in the manses--some dragged out and killed by the slaves or smallfolk who found them, others killing themselves upon discovery. The only nobles to survive were a few lucky children--many of whom had been locked up by worried parents or who a loyal slave had taken under their protection.  
  
A few days passed and once the remnants of the noble class were taken account of, no sign of any kind of leadership to be installed in the city appeared. And that worried Denys--thinking of the mess that had been made of the Westerlands. They couldn't put the governance of the city back into the hands of children--some of whom looked all to ready to kill them if given the opportunity. Denys knew he would have to speak up and organize something. He wracked his brain to think of something. A council of the remaining influential Tyroshi members of society--merchants, learned men, and two or three of the older Tyroshi noble children, aye they could rule the remains of the city for a time--but not for forever. Someone would  
  
And then the most curious twists of fate occurred. A slave who had been loyal to the Archon and his family had come forth to separate his master's bones from his family's and discovered something odd which quickly spread amongst the city like a spark to dry kindling.  
  
Waymar explained the matter to him one evening when the rumor was beginning to spread, "The former guards told me they're missing one body from the Archon's family."  
  
Denys looked up from the lists of men and women being considered for the Council of Twelve he was calling it in his head.  
  
Waymar took his shift of attention as a sign that Denys' interest had been properly piqued, "Aye, The middle daughter, Anaesysa, or Anyaseesah or something like that."  
  
The girl had disappeared just as the siege began it was said, and whoever had slaughtered and killed them had likely taken the girl in Denys' mind. But why? That Denys couldn't figure out that answer. Then there was the other likely possibility, that the girl had escaped back into the manse or died there before the Archon could escape.  
  
The idea of the missing Archon's daughter seemed to spread through the city like wildfire. The following days a makeshift altar for the missing girl had been created outside the gates of the inner city. Denys could hardly pass through the gates without hearing of some people who had come to oddly enough pray for the little girl. Denys wondered just how much of this behavior was spurred on by mothers who themselves had lost children and took up the cause of this missing child as a way to compensate for the loss of their own. It was one night as he considered this strange phenomenon that he had wandered through the encampment to see Ned--as he always was at this hour--hovering over the small girl who they had pulled from the ruins of the Archon's palace. The girl was healing, awake, and spoke very little and when prodded by one of their translators to see if she were noble born. The girl answered that she "knew nothing", bursting into tears not long thereafter.  
  
Suddenly a plan formulated in Denys' mind. Immediately Denys went to compare the bodies of the Archon of Tyrosh. Like the Archon, the girl shared dark brown hair--but all other facial features were far too decayed to be certain of much else.  
  
It could work. Tyrosh needs a king or some other authority to stand in its place when the time comes, to rule with a strong hand. The girl needed a past, as she claimed to remember nothing. It could work. It had to work--leaving the job of ruling to others for far too long only brought chaos.  
  
Queen Anaesysa of Tyrosh was proclaimed and paraded throughout the streets along with her Council of Twelve--to much excitement of the smallfolk, low-born merchants, and now freed slaves of the city.  
  
Robert rather liked the idea that the girl was a nobody whom they were claiming to be the missing Archon's daughter.  
  
"If she causes trouble in the future, we can hold that over her head," he grumbled.  
  
Ned had argued with Denys about the lion's den he was tossing the girl into.  
  
Denys rounded back at Ned, "Put aside your want to collect all the war orphans of the world and think sensibly for a moment, Ned! Tyrosh needs a leader after they've finished rebuilding--we have supplied them with a future leader, who will be for all sakes and purposes Westerosi. We will educate and arrange her marriage for her, and the council we have set up will handle the affairs of Tyrosh until she is of age. Until then, she's Robert's ward and will be trained to rule as a Queen in King's Landing."  
  
Ned was willing to accept that, even if he obviously disagreed with it.  
  
Denys didn't care if the girl was actually a slave's child, to him she represented a chance for Tyrosh not to become a harbor for the very pirates they had just fought. There was more than one way to win a war, and this way Denys was determined to win.


	76. Helena III

**HELENA**  
  
As her belly grew with the pup within her, she sometimes felt sharp pains, as though the Clegane pup actually had claws. These pains came and went, the maester assuring her that everything was normal. Conhur and Lymera were more drawn to her growing belly. They would pat her belly or listen to it as she felt the babe kick inside of her. This one would be active--that Helena knew for certain. Conhur especially clung and appreciated examining her growing body. Helena indulged him, for her goodsister had denied him such pleasures. One day Conhur admitted that he liked the idea of having someone to play with when they returned to Clegane Keep. Helena bit her lip--though the reports from Murchadh were that the Keep still stood, a band of starving smallfolk had wandered onto their lands as thieves, causing much disruption in the valley village. Murchadh, the only servant who could write, intimated that he feared the wooden palisade might not be enough to keep the smallfolk out if they gathered enough strength together.  
  
For the nonce she assured Conhur that no matter what he'd be able to play with his little cousin in a few years' time, which put a smile on his face regardless.  
  
News of the Massacre of Lannisport had arrived at the same time her wounded brother, his squire, a Riverlands squire, and a dwarf had. She had been called to the gate to deal with the issue as her goodsister had chosen that day to go into labor.  
  
She had recognized her brother immediately—though seeing with how beaten up he was, how he could be mistook for not being himself in the low evening light and wintry grey-white mist of fine falling snow which disoriented her and clouded her vision. It didn’t excuse not trusting his squire Gwydion on the matter and she admonished the guards for making the group wait for her confirmation. She had taken great care in wrapping herself warmly against the dire cold of winter, to keep the health of her little pup at the very least, time which could have otherwise been sent getting the rag-tag group into the stronghold. Seeing Lymond--whatever his faults--convulse and shake as he was doing, scared her. Little Sandor and Lymera had come not so far after her footsteps, though they had followed after her bundled in cloaks and furs, eager to see who it was at the gate, and Helena feared she hadn't the time to shield their eyes before seeing Lymond in the state he was in. She pointed the travelers who came with her brother in the direction of the Great Hall, promising them a warm fire, some furs to spare, and whatever the cook still had stewing in her cauldron. The Gwydion, the boy, and the dwarf all seemed eager at the promise of food and warmth and departed for the hall. On her way back to her chamber with Lymera and Sandor, Helena poked her head into the kitchen, which was busy boiling water for Lady Calena’s birth and asked if any remaining food could be sent to the Great Hall.  
  
The maester was called immediately from the birthing chamber, leaving the labor in the hands of the midwife. Helena, being with child herself was barred from both rooms, leaving her to be with the children. Part of her mind wished she could simply send them to their chambers, but knew they were unlikely to sleep anyway and at least this way she could keep an eye on them so that they wouldn’t wander and disturb the maester and midwife about their business. After assuring all three about Lymera had brought with her a ball which she and Conhur liked to roll between them before the fire. Little Sandor petulantly sat on the opposite side of the room looking out the window—occasionally turning to stare at Conhur and Lymera’s game before pursing his lips and stubbornly turning away from the sight of the two half-siblings enjoying one another’s company. Lymera seemed the most distressed about this state of affairs, looking torn between the fun she and Conhur were having as compared to the lonely protest her full brother was making by the window.  
  
“Sandor, come here. You’ll catch a cold sitting by the window like that,” urged Helena when she could no longer take seeing her nephew shivering as he did. If he didn’t want to join Lymera and Conhur by the fire, she could warm him her on her bed with her furs. He seemed to consider the offer for a moment before committing to his answer of slowly getting up and making his way to the bed with the least bit of haste imaginable. She could see him shiver the entire way, but as he crossed the room, little Sandor took great care in how he appeared to arrive at Helena’s bed. He stood by the bed for a moment, staring at the bulge in her stomach silently—though unlike his sister or Conhur, little Sandor’s look was one of disbelief.  
  
She patted the bed beside her to indicate where she would like him to be—curled up next to her as his sister was apt to be when she found the fire too warm. Helena pulled back a few furs and offered the warmth they would give him, but still little Sandor stood there staring at the swell in her belly and all the while Helena couldn’t help but feel as though there was something little Sandor was looking at that seemed in shock.  
  
“You’ll soon have a little cousin like you’ll have a little brother or sister,” she said, trying to hide the discomfort of the awkwardness little Sandor had.  
  
“Did my uncle do that to you?” asked little Sandor with an odd gleam to his eye.  
  
Not knowing how else to answer she replied, “Aye, as any husband does with a wife.”  
  
Little Sandor did not seem to comprehend her explanation but he was at least now willing to jump up onto her bed. Once he was up and situated she wrapped him in one layer of furs, but the small child became quite fussy and insisted on wrapping himself, which he did haphazardly. Once he was settled he turned on his side to face Helena—his eyes squarely aimed at her rounding stomach still.  
  
“Sandor, what are you doing?” asked Helena.  
  
The boy grunted, and Helena let a smile form on her lips.   
  
He’s more like his namesake than he’d ever appreciate, even if he looks like my brother in miniature—except for the hair.  
  
Soon little Sandor had fallen asleep and Helena was not too far after him when she felt something wiggle its way between her and her nephew. In a dim haze Helena opened her eyes to see Lymera curling up around her full brother. Curious then as to the whereabouts of Conhur she looked over towards the fireplace to see the boy sitting in front of it, using the poker to stir the dying flames some and looking quite forlorn and lonely. The ball that he and his half-sister had been playing with had no doubt rolled off into some dark corner of the room.  
  
“Conhur,” called Helena in a voice barely above a whisper. The boy turned his head at the sound of his name, a slight smile stretching onto his face as if to hide his emotions in that instant.  
  
“Come here,” insisted Helena with a pat to the other side of her, the side which did not have Lymera and Sandor on it. Conhur seemed apprehensive, his eyes darting towards the rhythmic breathing of his half-siblings before looking back at Helena.  
  
“You’re not sleeping on the floor by the fire tonight,” insisted Helena, with another pat to the empty bed by her side. The boy in brown with yellow dogs rose and approached the bed and after slipping off his boots obliged Helena, snuggling close to her. He laid his head on her stomach, smiled and fell asleep like a puppy might while draped over master’s lap. Helena felt her eyes close not long after that, the dim warm glow of the fire fading to black.  
  
 _She felt as though she were being torn apart—ripped in half as though someone had taken a leg in each hand and pulled them apart. In the distance she heard someone yelling._  
  
And then suddenly she felt something hot hit her face. She awoke with a sharp intake of breath and almost a shock to see one of Calena’s maids standing over her with a candle which was awfully close to her face. The girl looked wide eyed and apologetic in the next instant, pulling the candle back suddenly.  
  
Helena rubbed her right hand over her cheek and found hardening stream of wax there that she felt crack and break off her raw skin. Helena then looked around her to see the children all soundly asleep, though Conhur seemed perturbed at her movements in his sleep. A quick glance to the window indicated that it was still dark out—though with the snow they’d been getting that was no clear indicator of time. The wind howled and shook the window slightly.  
  
The girl then went to speak, but Helena put her finger to her mouth to keep the girl’s silence. Helena then looked to the girl to assist her with removing Conhur from ontop of her, which the girl did, lifting him up just enough to allow Helena to scoot off the bed, and then placing him down back on the bed where she’d been after Helena had managed to stand. As if missing the heat she’d given, Conhur reached out in his sleep—his arms eventually reaching his sister, and either in his sleep or a state of half-sleep he scooted until he was snuggled up close to his half-sister. The sight was endearing to see, Sandor in the arms of Lymera and Lymera in the grasp of Conhur. It warmed Helena’s heart and she tucked the children more firmly under the furs before departing the room. On her way out she wrapped herself in her cloak, grabbed a candle of her own which she lit with the maid’s, and then led the maid out of the room. It wasn’t until she had closed the door as silently as she could and they’d begun to walk down the corridor that she indicated for the maid to speak.  
  
“Begging your pardon, milady, but the midwife said that I was to get you no matter the hour,” apologized the maid.  
  
Helena recalled giving the midwife instructions that she was to be alerted as soon as her new niece or nephew had been born and smiled at the girl before continuing on. Boarshead Hall was not so large that it took too long until she reached the confinement chambers. The room was dark, but the fire kept it quite warm and lit enough, though Helena noticed as she entered the room the shadows seemed to withdraw at her entrance. There she found the old midwife, who when she spoke revealed a few bluish-black teeth and a horrible breath, which Helena did her best to hide her revulsion of. Calena was visibly asleep from exhaustion.  
  
“Tis a boy, milady,” said the midwife as she handed her mewing nephew into Helena’s hands.  
  
“Did my goodsister give him a name?” asked Helena.  
  
“Nay, milady. Lady Vikary fell asleep not long after she heard the babe cry,” commented the midwife while avoiding looking at the babe.  
  
At that instant her goodsister bestirred herself and said in a clear delirium: “I do not sleep... give me my son. Give me Lykos…”  
  
Her father’s name… Calena had called the babe by her father’s name. She and Lymond must have agreed upon the name before he left. Helena, having only just gotten to hold her nephew took one last look at him before handing him to his mother.  
  
“My boy… h—he looks so much like Conhur did at this age…” commented Calena a bit morosely. She then called out her bastard son’s name as she drifted off to sleep. Helena swooped in to take up Lykos to leave the exhausted Calena to her rest.  
  
“What o’clock is it?” asked Helena, curious as to the hour as she shushed her noisy nephew.  
  
The midwife’s red face darkened further, and the shadows in the room seemed to grow as she said, “The hour of the wolf milady.”   
  
Helena’s breath stopped at that, and it might have just been her imagination, but she thought distantly on the wind she heard something which sounded like a wolf’s howl. A chill crawled down her spine—she knew the old tales of a child born at the hour of the wolf. Her father Lykos had been born at the hour of the wolf, and her grandfather Lyall had not lasted the year, dying with only enough time to sire her uncle Raynard—who’d died as a child. To have a child at the hour of the wolf was to invite the Stranger into the house for a year, putting everyone’s life within the house in danger for that year, unless you could satisfy the Stranger with daily offerings or…  
  
She then understood why the midwife looked at the boy oddly, and Helena held the sleepy babe tighter in her arms. No, they wouldn’t leave this one out in the cold for the Stranger to take.  
  
 _We’ll just have to live with the Stranger for a year…_  
  
“I’ll see that bread and salt are put before the Stranger’s altar,” assured Helena definitively, and the ill look that had been in the midwife’s eye eased at the sound of that.  
  
“As you wish, milady. I’ll see that the babe is put down. He only cried once, you know. He’s a sweet babe…” said the midwife oddly, as though trying to assure herself of that very fact.  
  
Helena handed over her sleeping nephew before pointedly saying, “Aye… that he is. I shall return when I’m through.”  
  
The midwife nodded and Helena then took her leave of the room. Down the dark steps with no light beyond her candle did she journey. The shadows seemed to pulse all around her—threatening to come in and extinguish the light. She descended the steps quite quickly, feeling her blood pulse and her heart seem to speed up for no reason that seemed logical to her mind.   
  
_I will make an offering to the Stranger before the hour is out and do the same each day, and we will all live._  
  
At the foot of the steps she came to the door leading out into the courtyard. It was bolted shut and she heard and felt some of the cold chills shake the door slightly. On a small table by the door stood a lantern with a half-burnt candle inside it—there in case anyone should need to cross the courtyard in the night. Before lifting the bolt to the door to the courtyard, she put down her own candle, which flickered to a quite low level and then used it to light the lantern. As she lit the lantern she felt her pulse quicken. Off to the left, beneath the stair she thought she saw something cloaked in the shadows standing there, waiting. She closed the little lantern’s glass door and the light grew brighter without the flame having to compete with the wind. After blowing out her candle she turned to where she had thought she’d seen a cloaked figure stand, only to see in the brighter light, nothing there. Chiding her mind for playing tricks on her, she pulled her cloak tight against her body before lifting the bolt on the door and opening the door to the courtyard. It was a blizzard outside—that was plain enough to see. Snow came spewing in as she did, and Helena felt herself shudder somewhat—but she knew the importance of her task, and so she took up her lantern and trudged out into the deep snows that came up half-way between her ankle and her calf, with no sign of stopping anytime soon. She shut the door to the Keep behind her and made her way to the kitchens and Great Hall. There she found the cook and her assistants busy preparing for the morning meal already, with the dwarf who had come in with Lymond sitting there and chatting amiably with the entire kitchen staff as they bustled about.   
  
The dwarf regaled, “And then my horse took off so fast, I hardly had any control about the damn thing. Damn near shit my pants.”  
  
“You ride a horse?! That I’d pay gold to see!” laughed one of the servants.  
  
She asked one of the women to fetch her a roll of bread and a small bowl of salt.  
  
“Why Lady Clegane, you’ve changed quite a bit since I saw you last,” commented the dwarf, after the command had been given.  
  
“I doubt that in the few short hours since your arrival I’ve changed that much,” countered Helena without much of a look to the dwarf himself.  
  
The dwarf persisted, “I was not speaking of our earlier run-in, my lady, but of one which took place… five years ago.”  
  
Helena was confused until the moment she locked her eyes with the dwarf’s green eye and black eye.  
  
“Lord Lannister!” exclaimed Helena. She recognized him almost at once now that she actually looked at him instead of toward him.  
  
“Lord Lannister? Aye, and if that be true, then I’m the Queen Lyanna herself!” laughed one of the other servants.  
  
“Hold your tongue, Evera!” scolded the cook, who saw the serious look upon Helena’s face.  
  
“You have me, my lady. And I must thank you for your exquisite attention of your staff. They were quite the company in the Great Hall,” commented the Lannister dwarf.  
  
Chiding herself for having simply left her liege lord to sleep in the Great Hall with the two squires, she said immediately, “I’ll have a servant arrange for more proper sleeping quarters.”  
  
“No bother, I’m too wide awake now to sleep anyways… but if you could direct me to your maester come the dawn, I’d be forever grateful,” commented the little lion.  
  
That reminded her that she had yet to see to Lymond’s status. Something else to do before she could fall asleep, “Of course, Lord Lannister.”  
  
The servant then brought the bowl and roll and Helena took her leave.  
  
As she exited she heard her liege call “Come now, I may be a lion but fear not, I’m only a little one!”  
  
Outside the howling of the wind had picked up, sounding almost as if it were a wolf laboring in great pain. She held her cloak tighter against herself, so as to keep her bulging stomach beneath the cloak. Her back was now aching from being up for so long. It hadn’t before she’d gone into the kitchens… odd. The snow was now falling more gently and the cleared path before her was only now covered in ankle deep snow. Hadn’t it been deeper? Aye it was outside of the path—almost up to her knees, the worst snow she’d ever seen. She continued her trek towards the Sept, her attention being distracted when her name was called. She turned to see coming out of the keep was Lord Lannister, dressed in presentable clothes and one of her brother’s old cloaks from his childhood wrapped around his shoulders. Hadn’t she just—  
  
“You should not be out her by yourself, my lady. The path is slippery and you might fall,” interjected Lord Lannister.  
  
“I must give offering to the Stranger, Lord Lannister, it must be me.”  
  
“And when that pup decides to come out?” questioned her liege.  
  
“That won’t be for a few moons yet,” deferred Helena.  
  
“Do you carry twins then? For you seem large enough to give birth within the fortnight,” said Lord Tyrion with a wry smile.  
  
Helena was confused but a look down to her stomach only confirmed what Lord Lannister told her, and she scolded herself for letting the fitful nights of nightmares and stress from acting as Lord of the Castle with her brother dead to the world in a drugged sleep recovering from the amputation of his arm and leg, and Calena taking already busy with her duties as Lady and the time she now took sitting with Conhur for a few hours each day, trying to get to know the son she’d nearly ignored for a good many years. Calena’s own words echoing in her ears at that moment:  
  
 _“I didn’t want to know him only to lose him again…”_  
  
“Forgive me, my Lord, I fear I am quite tired,” admitted Helena.  
  
Lord Tyrion waved his hand as he said, “Understandable, considering the times we live in…”  
  
“Milady!” called out one of the guards, and Helena turned to see a guard running towards them from the gatehouse. He was upon them the next instant.  
  
He panted as he spoke, saying, “The knights… from earlier… are… at the… gate!”  
  
 _The knights?_  
  
She recalled hearing one of the guards report that they had seen a group of guards ride by sometime during the day, and told the guards to be alert to any further reports. The whole keep was on edge since a band of smallfolk had come into the area begging and stealing food wherever they could.  
  
“What do they want?” she asked.  
  
By now the guard did not need to pant as much, saying, “To have our maester see to their wounds… milady—one of them especially is looking rather bad… He looks as though a horse trampled over him.”  
  
 _The maester said his supplies were getting low, what with taking care of Lymond. What we need is for the smallfolk bands to be dispersed so he can resupply._  
  
“What banners do they fly?” asked Helena, hoping the banners wouldn’t be of any lord too close to them.  
  
“Several, some I’ve seen before and other’s I’d ne’er seen in me life, milady. They fly the King’s Standard and the Lannister banner, along with the Bloody Wolf’s banner milady. The others I didn’t recognize were a horse head on orange and some axes crossed on yellow.”  
  
 _Damn._  
  
A brief look was shared between her and her liege, before she sighed, “Show them enter.”  
  
Her liege continued with her to her journey to the Sept.   
  
“You aren’t curious as to our newest visitors?” she asked as she pushed open the Sept.  
  
“Warriors sent by the King from my sister, Lord Stark, and his bannermen are the sort of people I should hide from, not encourage to assassinate me, Lady Helena,” japed Lord Tyrion as she closed the door behind them. Inside the Sept she saw someone sitting on a bench in the darkness—the Paege boy. The letter from Riverrun requested that as soon as the snows were through that he should be sent east as soon as possible.  
  
“Truth is, I have been meaning to speak with you, my lady, since I came here.”  
  
“Truly? On what matter?” asked Helena.  
  
“It concerns your husband,” stated Lord Tyrion, as though he would rather be speaking of anything else.  
  
“You’ll wait while I make the offering?” she asked.  
  
“Of course, my lady.”  
  
Helena nodded and then walked down the aisle of benches towards the seven altars. The Sept was small, but it served well enough. In the darkest corner she found the wooden statue of the cloaked Stranger awaiting her arrival. This night, like each night before it, she approached the robed figure with tepidity, scared as though he might reach out and touch her to take her. She came forth to his statue and stopped to take notice of the empty bowl and crumbs before the statue, left from the previous night. A chill went down her spine—she never found that—always each day she came to change the roll and salt, throwing away the old day’s offering, but this night… this night the previous night’s offering was gone!  
  
She heard a groan come from the statue and she looked up to see the wooden statue move and pull back his hood… and as she stared at the Stranger’s face she screamed.  
  
 _“Sandor!” she called out, and she saw him there at her side. The pain was too much… much too much._  
  
 _“I’m here,” he whispered to her, taking her hand._  
  
 _“No… you’re not… you’re at war… at war!” she said before breaking into another scream—the pain coming again._  
  
She rubbed her belly as she felt the babe shift inside her. Her son or daughter didn’t like the news as much as she did. She was in Lymond’s sickroom with Lord Tyrion. Lymond was sitting up and in one of his lucid moments, though you could tell with how he held himself, he still was in great pain. It was Ser Jaime Lannister’s need of the milk of the poppy inadvertently leading Lymond to begin weaning from the concoction.  
  
“What do you mean he made arrangements?” she asked.  
  
Lord Tyrion spoke well and eloquently, “He asked me when I came into my lordship if I could use my authority to ask the High Septon to see that your marriage be dissolved. Considering your present condition I thought it best to inquire as to how matters stood presently.”  
  
“You see that, Helena… the dog was planning to get rid of you,” grunted Lymond.  
  
Her babe moved within her now, bringing some pain along with it.  
  
“He is still my husband and your goodbrother, Lymond!” growled Helena, clutching her belly as she did. The babe squirmed at her touch.  
  
“I take it then, my services in this matter are not required?” questioned Lord Tyrion.  
  
“Fuck no!” she shouted, and once again the babe moved, causing her to groan in pain again.  
  
 _The pain was unbearable—she must have been ripped all the way up to her belly now._  
  
 _“Can’t you give her something?!” shouted Sandor._  
  
 _The maester said, “My supply of milk has been used up.”_  
  
 _She heard pawing and scratching at the door, follow by the howls._  
  
 _“The wolf is at the door…” she said before breaking out in screams once again._  
  
She was in Ser Jaime’s sickroom now, seeing her liege cry as his brother awoke for the first time. The golden knight of the Kingsguard was heavily bruised and swollen in places. He seemed hardly able to open his mouth without invoking a tremendous amount of pain, but he did it to whisper out words to his brother. She watched, as she had promised Lord Tyrion she would.  
  
The Lannister knight said as best he could, “Gods preserve me… I never… thought I’d… done anything… good enough… to see… the Seven Heavens…”  
  
Lord Tyrion interjected saying, “I hate to burst your bubble, but that’s how you should know you’re not there… I wouldn’t be able to get in if I tried.”  
  
“You died innocent, Tyrion… the Seven would be cruel to spurn you…” answered Jaime.  
  
Lord Tyrion then said, “Aye they would… if I were dead…”  
  
The golden Kingsguard looked at him before saying, “No… this would have to be a dream then…”  
  
Poetically Lord Tyrion said as he took his brother’s bandaged hand, “What is life, but the greatest dream of all?”  
  
The babe moved then, and a wave of pain shot through her then, causing Helena to fall to the ground. On the edge of the bed she saw a hooded figure all in black sitting on the bed, looking at her.  
  
“No… I gave the offering… I gave it each day!” she yelled.  
  
A skeletal hand then appeared at the end of the robed figure’s arm and it opened to demand payment.  
  
Helena looked down in her hands and saw that she had spilled the salt from the bowl in shock. Blood dripping from her and commingling with the salt, but the roll in her hand was still good. She looked back up to see the wooden altar with the hand outstretched and waiting. As she felt her babe claw her belly from inside, she reached out and strained to put the roll in the skeletal hand. The closer she got, the further away the hand seemed to get. She strained herself, the pain growing worse, but at long last she did it, placing the roll into the hand, and falling back to the ground as the skeletal hand disappeared beneath the robe. There on the Sept’s floor she lost consciousness.  
  
*****  
  
When she awoke she was in the confinement chamber. She felt as weak as a kitten. Her mind was a flurry of questions—all of which were dispelled the instant she saw Sandor sitting in a chair beside the birthing bed. He had fallen asleep in the chair, his mouth open as a light snore escaped his mouth.  
  
 _A dream… aye that’s what this is…_  
  
If it were a dream, at least it was a good one, and not the nightmares she had become accustomed to since Lykos’ birth.  
  
Feeling her legs slightly numb she shifted them slightly under the covers—a pain from her groin becoming aware to her the moment she had. She let out a gasp of pain, which startled Sandor awake in the next instant. He swore; his voice was so soar it crackled like burning paper.  
  
“You’re awake,” he said almost amazedly.  
  
“Nay… I think I dream,” she answered back.  
  
“Fuck dreams, you’re awake!” he countered, rather excitedly. And he took her hand—and the feel of his callused hand against hers alerted her to the fact that it wasn’t a dream.  
  
“You’re here!” she exclaimed, realizing the truth of the situation almost immediately.  
  
“Aye…” he answered before she pulled him down to hold him. He smelled of leather and sweat, but she didn’t care, he was here. He was here.  
  
They stayed that way for a while, Helena taking the time to hold him like she feared she mightn’t have the chance to do so again all these moons.  
  
"Were you knighted?" she asked, her face buried into the shoulder she had pulled down to snuggle into. She heard him whisper an aye to that question, and Helena felt relief flood through her. Lymond's fucking requirement was fulfilled and they could remain together.  
  
It was then the news that Lord Tyrion had broken to her came once again to her mind… and she broke the hold to look   
  
“Do you want me?” she asked, needing to know the answer  
  
He shifted to sitting on the edge of the bed, a more comfortable position to sit in and hold her as it now was his turn to pull her “Gods yes… after that hellhole… yes… and then I got here to find out you were giving birth… and to think I almost lost you like… fuck yes, I want you.”  
  
If he hadn't said anything, the tightness of his grip said everything else. He held her as if he were afraid she'd disappear if he let go. She could hardly make sense of what he was saying, but at this point she didn’t care. They were together... gods preserve them and keep their family strong.  
  
At the mention of giving birth Helena’s free hand instantly went down to her belly, which felt still for the first time in months.  
  
He must have noticed her hand for then he said, “It was twins…”  
  
“Twins?” she asked, not having expected that number.  
  
Sandor continued, “Aye… two boys… the first came out easily enough… but the second… the maester said the babe was positioned all wrong.”  
  
“What do you mean?” asked Helena, feeling a cold chill to the room. In the corner of her eye she saw a shadow move.  
  
Sandor spoke as if he were afraid to say the thing, as if it would make it real, but nonetheless he did, saying, “The second came out feet first with the… chord wrapped around his neck.”  
  
In the corner of the room she saw a robed figure standing in shadows, and in its skeletal arms it held a bloody babe, rocking it gently to sleep.   
  
The Stranger had taken his due.


	77. Renly III

**RENLY**  
  
He hadn’t wanted to leave Stannis. He’d wished to stay with him as he was charged with establishing the beginnings of Robert’s Port—the new city that was to spring from the ruins of Daemon Targaryen’s old keep he’d ruled the Kingdom of the Stepstones from and its surrounding village on Bloodstone. Well, the nearly two hundred year old keep was old compared to Renly’s two and ten namedays, but compared to a castle like Storm’s End Daemon’s Keep was a newborn infant among most Westerosi castles. Robert had declared that their great uncle Harbert was to rule the new port city as capital of a crown protectorate or something of the like. When Renly had first heard of it, he thought that meant the Stepstones would be another kingdom like the Stormlands or the Reach, but Stannis said that a crown protectorate would be something different. In truth, Renly didn’t quite understand the difference, even after Stannis’ thorough explanation. No matter, it didn’t change what had to be done, either way. Stannis had come to Bloodstone to establish the beginnings of a port suitable to serve as home for the Royal Navy when it was not in use, and Renly as his squire had come with him.  
  
As for his great uncle, the new ruler of the future Robert’s Port, Renly could recall very little of the man. He had been castellan of Storm’s End until he’d gone off to war with Robert. His great uncle had then nearly died at the Kingswood alongside his son Harmon—if it hadn’t been for the newly acquired Cafferen heir as a squire that Harmon had taken in the aftermath of the Battle of Summerhall, both Harbert and his son would have died in the slaughter. The young squire, now Lord Roscoe Cafferen, had saved their lives and proven his worth on the battlefield. Immediately after the battle cousin Harmon had knighted Roscoe honorably. Thinking on the tale of Lord Roscoe’s valor, Renly wondered if he would have to do something as great as that to be knighted, and worried that with the Stepstones so calm now, he would miss any chance to be knighted in the future. It was only remembering that Robert had been knighted without going to war that Renly had eased up. After the war, great uncle Harbert had taken the surviving Lord Harwood Fell the Silveraxe’s sister Sylvia and only kin as ward, per the agreement in the aftermath of Summerhall, and within a year he had taken her as a second wife. From the marriages that came out of the Battle of Summerhall, Renly now had four cousins, Harrold, Hermione, and Harbert the younger who were set to rule Robert's Port sometime in the future by being Harmon’s heirs, and Harwood, great uncle Harbert’s second son that he’d had from his second wife. More cousins to remember along with his Estermont kin: Aemon, Lomas, Atraeys, Andrew, Alyn, and Morla.  
  
Almost immediately after the rebellion had been settled, Stannis had sent great uncle Harbert to oversee the reorganization of Summerhall’s lands and act as Renly’s castellan there. Since then, Renly had hardly considered his great uncle, only meeting him briefly when visiting Summerhall. Renly recalled an old man, tall and quite hale for a man nearing sixty namedays as he had been at the time. He also remembered him bustling about energetically as though he were a man half his age trapped within an old man’s body—he even drank and swore like a man that young. Aye, Renly vaguely recalled laughing at a crude jape he’d made about one of the workers. And yet, when speaking with Stannis he’d become even graver than his normally stoic brother was. Renly wondered if his great uncle was still as hale and healthy now. Most likely it was so, if Renly had yet another cousin by him. And now great uncle Harbert after many years of loyal service to their house was to be the lord of his own castle, and in charge of seeing that Westeros’ foothold in the Stepstones would remain loyal for many years to come.  
  
For a little more than two turns of the moon after the fall of Tyrosh, Renly had explored Daemon’s ruined keep. The smallfolk called the keep built high upon the red cliffs of Bloodstone, “King’s Fort”, but it was really more an overgrown castle keep than a proper fort—at least in Renly’s opinion. The main keep a tall structure, with a few stone dragons carved in place of gargoyles. The upper levels had caved in many years ago and was nearly a shell of its former glory—though hints at its royal past with fine polished marble columns and dragon carvings about the castle’s interior gave hint to its former magnificence. Beneath the tower of the keep, the ground and subterranean levels extended far beyond what the keep’s size would suggest. The ground floor had a series of small stone buildings branching off of the main keep in each direction like a spider’s web. They were connected with halls which meandered from one to the next. The ground level, especially these outer buildings, had suffered the most from the smallfolk and their chisels, who’d over the past few centuries, had taken to chipping away at the stone to ground level to build houses and walls of their own in the village below. Outside of the web of buildings was a series of two walls—each with their own dry moat filled with things that fueled Reny’s nightmares for at least a sennight before he was at ease. These walls had only been nominally touched by the smallfolk oddly enough. Out of the entire structure, only a small part of it was even habitable, and Stannis had taken up occupancy there while designs for a larger harbor were drawn up to house the royal fleet. Renly had wondered why Stannis hadn’t taken any interest in restoring more of the castle as well.  
  
“That is for our great uncle to decide. He has enough experience from tending to Summerhall in your absence,” tutted Stannis when prompted by a question from Renly when they were alone one evening in the makeshift solar that Stannis had established. Stannis was pouring over ledgers and making note of all the expenses that he had thus far accrued in hiring laborers to enlarge the harbor. Renly had found the instruction on ledgers boring and difficult to keep the numbers straight, his brother had insisted he learn the task, telling him that finances were as much a part of being a good lord as swordplay and strategy.  
  
Courteously Renly inquired, “But Stannis, if our great uncle has been looking after Summerhall for me who will do so now that he’s to be a lord?”  
  
“You will,” replied Stannis curtly, his eyes darting up from the book to meet Renly’s in that instant.  
  
“I will?!” answered Renly with a bit too much enthusiasm than Stannis seemed ready to anticipate. Renly immediately guarded his face to hide his obvious elation.  
  
Stannis nodded as he continued to note something in the ledgers, “With guidance from the knight I am sending you to squire with, who will replace our great uncle as castellan for you.”  
  
The first thought to enter his mind was the first to leave his mouth, his voice unable to hide the disappointment as he asked, “I… I’m no longer your squire?”  
  
Stannis was “No. I promised you when the war was over I’d find a proper knight for you to squire for. Robert’s decision has just… hastened those plans.”  
  
Renly “Aye. But you’d…”  
  
“I’d what?” asked Stannis, meeting his eyes once again. And there in his brother’s sea blue eyes, Renly saw that he didn’t need to finish his question. Stannis didn’t want to send Renly away at the moment than Renly did.  
  
Yet one of the things he remembered Stannis saying from the siege—one of the few things he remembered anymore—was: “Wants and needs are as different as day and night, Renly.”  
  
And now more than before, Renly could see that while they wanted to remain together—they needed to part.  
  
“What is it?” queried Stannis further, his teeth grinding slightly as he did so.  
  
Renly gave a slight smile and a nod of his head to his brother as he admitted, “Although I want to stay… I know I need to go.”  
  
Stannis’ face seemed unreadable for an instant—and the hand that held the quill had dropped the writing tool and blotted the book slightly, but he did not seem to notice. They stood there looking at one another—truly looking at each other—for what felt like an eternity. Stannis then blinked and noticed the fallen quill, picked it up and attempted to wipe away the blot as best he could. When he was ready to continue speaking he cleared his throat.  
  
“You will stop at Storm’s End where Ser Brandon Rogers will meet you and take you as his squire. While you are there, if you could give Lorra this letter and my regards, I would appreciate it,” said Stannis as he pulled out a sealed missive stamped with the stag signet ring in yellow wax.  
  
Renly accepted the sealed letter and task quite easily, nodding to show he understood.   
  
“From there you will continue on to Summerhall where Ser Brandon will take up his post as castellan and free our great uncle to take up his seat here, after which I’ll then be free to return _home_.”  
  
There was a certain way Stannis put emphasis on the word home which Renly took to Stannis preferring to be at Storm’s End than here at Daemon’s Keep—especially with Lorra due to give birth so soon. But Renly knew why Stannis stayed—it was the same reason Renly knew he had to leave. His brother then waved for Renly to depart, saying that he would do well to prepare for the voyage at once. Renly then turned to depart from the room, but as he reached the door, he was stopped by Stannis.  
  
“And Renly…” started Stannis.  
  
“Aye?” asked the young Stag, turning back to face his lordly brother. Words must have escaped the elder Stag’s tongue, for after a few moment of straining to say something, Stannis collected himself and gave Renly a firm nod, one which spoke far more than words ever could. Renly gave his own nod in reply and then left to pack.  
  
Soon enough Renly found himself once again upon a ship—one sailing northwest for the Stormlands. He did not find the sea as sickening this voyage as he had the last—to be sure he still felt a tad queasy, but he managed to reach the side of the deck before puking now, instead of needing to be confined to his cabins with a slop bucket. He only had to be confined to the cabin once during the entire trip—and that was when it seemed that they might be sailing into a winter storm—which were less frequent but far more deadly than their autumn cousins on the Narrow Sea.  
  
When Renly arrived at the Storm’s End docks, he was quite glad to be getting off. There he found Ser Cortnay Penrose eagerly awaiting his arrival.   
  
“Why Lord Renly, I do believe you’ve grown almost half a foot since I saw you last,” exclaimed the red-haired knight with a good-natured tone.  
  
“Not so much, but I have grown!” insisted Renly as he returned the smile he’d received from his brother’s castellan.  
  
It was then that Renly noticed a young broad-chested knight with long brown hair, a long face, and grey eyes so dark they almost seemed black, but that might have been from the amount of black cloth he wore trimmed with white mazes and unicorns embroidered upon the rather simple cloth. It looked a shame to Renly’s eyes that such coarse and simply cloth as wool should have such beautiful embroidery—or that any idiot could have not only considered, but actually succeeded in embroidering the leather vest the man wore. Lorra had taught him to appreciate fine embroidery and cloths. She had even said that he had a keener eye for the subject than half her sisters had. It had been the first thing Renly had bonded with his goodsister over, and he had been quite happy to do so. So seeing such fine needlework on wool and leather distressed Renly slightly, and worried him that this impractical man—who wore the Rogers symbols—was to be the knight he’d squire for. Wool and leather were for practicality—not show! That such embroidery would be thrown away on it screamed flippant and wanton reckless spending—aye, very reckless.   
  
_Reckless, flippant, wanton, and impractical._  
  
Renly already wondered if Stannis truly would approve of this man. He felt his face form a little scowl—but then remembered himself and hid it from view.  
  
 _Bad taste, bad taste all around. Surely such a needle should have been devoted to silk, or at the very least velvet or satin!_  
  
Ser Cortnay after a brief reunion introduced the man to Renly as Ser Brandon Rogers, and Renly held back the desire to groan that came upon him. To the man’s credit—beyond his clothes—Ser Brandon was quick to smile and seemed rather at ease with himself as though he had hardly a care in the world. Of course a reckless man wouldn’t have a care in the world and fail to take life seriously, but Renly put that to one side, or at least attempted to do so. Ser Brandon should be allowed to prove his worth, after all, like any other knight. Mayhaps like other knights, he simply wasn’t aware of the message his choice in clothes sent to the world. In that instant Renly almost pitied the knight he was to squire for as the man japed about how he might have confused Renly for his brother. However, it took Renly a few moments to realize that he meant the King, rather than Stannis. Ser Brandon’s affability almost caused Renly to be distracted enough to notice that Maester Cressen hadn’t come down from the castle to greet them. Lorra too was absent—as was Cassana and Shireen—but Renly had figured Lorra likely to be in confinement and Cassana and Shireen were likely not permitted outside the castle without her and thus he fully expected them to be ready to pounce upon his entrance through the gates of Storm’s End. But that didn’t explain Maester Cressen’s absence.  
  
“Where’s Maester Cressen?” Renly had asked Ser Cortnay, as the balding red head led the way up to the castle.  
  
Ser Cortnay’s face fell, and his mouth stretched the whiskers on his upper lip into a thin red line before he said, “That is one reason I must speak with you, my young lord. Your goodsister has been going through quite a difficult labor, and the Maester has been beside himself on how to handle the birth properly.”  
  
“What’s there to know? The babe slides out of a woman’s hole and its cord is cut,” noted Renly, recalling what Stannis had once said about giving birth.  
  
“Not all things are that simple, I’m afraid,” replied Ser Cortnay with a grim countenance, one which Renly came to dislike before the day was through.  
  
Renly turned to Ser Brandon to see if he had any response to add, but the jovial man in black and white looked almost equally grim as they headed for the castle.  
  
In truth, approaching the confinement chamber—something he’d not been permitted before with either of Lorra’s pregnancies with Cassana or Shireen, only seeing her once she’d made the move back to her own chambers in each case—was not a good sign to begin with. Approaching the confinement chamber caused Renly to worry that his new niece or nephew was hurt, or hadn’t come out right, or might be...  
  
Upon knocking at the door, it opened to reveal a worried Maester Cressen, only feeding Renly’s fears even more. Ser Cortnay and the Maester shared a look for the moment—Renly had begun to recognize when men grown did such things from Stannis. Maester Cressen gave a slight nod and then hurried Renly into the room.  
  
Inside the dark chamber, curtains blocking out any stray light the winter sun might provide and lit only by a roaring fire, Renly found his goodsister abed, at once sweaty and yet shivering. Renly wanted immediately to rush up to Lorra, like he might have when Stannis first married her, but he could plainly see his goodsister was asleep, and that she looked like she needed it. At Lora’s bedside was his cousin, Morla Hasty, formerly Estermont. Morla was a sad woman about Robert’s age, who had lost her parents, her brother, and her husband to the rebellion—had nearly died herself during the siege, and had only recovered from the loss through the effort of raising her sons Bastian and Atraeys alone. Seeing Morla at Lorra’s bedside worried Renly. His cousin he’d been told had been a happy girl once, and quick to make Robert laugh—but so much loss had brought upon the dower and depressing creature that Renly knew her to be, he could hardly imagine her being anything else. Turning his eyes from his cousin he saw in the far corner a wet nurse with two bundles in her arms happily sucking at her teats.  
  
“Twins?” asked Renly as he turned to the old maester, careful enough not to speak too loudly to disturb his goodsister.  
  
Maester Cressen smiled “Aye, my lord, a little lord and another lady. Lady Lorra’s mother was one of such twins as well, though the boy was born dead in that case…”  
  
“And my niece and nephew?” asked Renly, immediately pleased on Stannis’ behalf to have a son and heir to Storm’s End.  
  
“They are quite healthy, my lord—it’s Lady Lorra I fear for.”  
  
“Good Maester Cressen… will you cease speaking of me… as though I weren’t present in the room?” panted Lorra’s voice. Renly turned to see Lorra’s eyes fluttering open slightly, and her breathing become increasingly labored. Her eyes then locked upon Renly and a faint smile stretched over her face.  
  
Lorra asked, “Is that Renly?”  
  
“Aye, sister,” affirmed Renly, hurrying to Lorra’s other side with little decorum—earning him a raised eyebrow from Morla, but Renly didn’t care. Maester Cressen seemed to take the opportunity to pull back some of the blankets examine Lorra some more. It was the most exposed Renly had ever seen Lorra be—and he felt rather uncomfortable with the entire situation. As if sensing his discomfort, Lorra broke the silence next.  
  
“Has Stannis come with you?” asked Lorra, seeming to collect herself more at the thought of seeing him.  
  
Renly was quite forlorn to break her hopes, but he would not lie to her. The small spark of life dissipated as quickly as it appeared in Lorra.  
  
He quickly tried to assuage her disappointment, stating, “But I have a letter!”  
  
“A letter… just like a man. His wife risks her life giving him children, and the man cannot be bothered to bestir himself to at the very least come himself… not that it matters,” tutted Morla more to herself than anyone in the room. Renly in that instant, glared at his cousin. He wanted to say something in response—anything to quiet her critique of Stannis—but before he had a chance to, she brushed him off with an eye roll as she stood up to leave Lorra’s bedside.  
  
“Read it to me, Renly, for I fear I feel far too tired to look at anything for too long,” implored Lorra. Renly held his tongue only so he could do as he was bid, pulling out the letter and breaking the seal.  
  
The script was in Stannis’ hard but simple strokes, and Renly began reading the letter aloud quite strong.  
  
 _To Lady Lorra Baratheon, Lady of Storm’s End_  
  
 _My dear Lorra,_  
  
 _It pains me to have to write this letter and have it sent to you while I remain here on this godsforesaken red rock. I miss Cassana’s joy and Shireen’s playfulness. I miss Storm’s End—the godsforesaken place that it is. I’ll miss Renly when he’s gone, but most of all I miss you, Lorra. Each night I long to wake and find you by my side or in my arms, and each morn I am sorely disappointed. Not being able to be near you while you struggle to bring forth yet another child for our small herd, is likely just as painful to you as it is for me to write this letter—and that is worse than all the other regrets I have. Even though I know I am doing my duty to my King in establishing his port, I cannot help but long to be with you and our family. If the child is a boy, I would like to name him for my grandfather, Ormund—and if it be a girl, then I can think of no other name than that of your dear sister Annalys’ whom we could better honor with her name. Please reply soon, my love._  
  
 _Stannis, Lord Admiral of the Royal Navy, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm’s End_  
  
Lorra did not respond, instead Renly saw only a tear run down her cheek. Renly himself was shocked, were the letter not in Stannis’ own simple but hard hand, he might have doubted its authorship. That his brother could express himself on paper to Lorra so well… gods, it made Renly see Stannis far far differently from the man who could only nod to him.  
  
It was then Lorra shivered quite noticeably.  
  
“Why is it so cold suddenly?” she asked, her teeth noticeably chattering, and her lips draining of color. Maester Cressen gave a look to Morla, who nodded before prying Renly away from Lorra’s bedside rather forcefully. As she did, Renly got a better view of what Maester Cressen was doing as he saw the maester’s hands quite bloody, pressing cloths betwixt Lorra’s legs from which the blood seemed to pour.  
  
Morla clucked, “Come, cuz, we must leave the maester to his work.”  
  
“But—” was all that Renly could speak out before he was pulled through the door of the confinement chamber.  
  
“Besides, it is nearly time to sup the evening meal,” finished Morla as the door to the chamber was shut behind them.  
  
The meal was already prepared and his two nieces and Morla’s sons were in the midst of eating their soup. Upon the arrival of Renly and Morla to the Small Hall—which was reserved for private gatherings and meals—all four younger children stood, even young Shireen, who seemed to have positively shot up from the toddler Renly had seen when he left to the very young child she was now. Atraeys and Bastian seemed nearly identical to one another, with the only difference you could see between them being that Bastian was shorter and thus younger than his brother Atraeys, though being ten and seven—nearly eight—namedays one could barely distinguish those differences heights presently. Both had dark brown almost black hair, which they had obviously inherited from their father as it quite noticeably clashed with cousin Morla’s honey-brown locks. Both of Morla’s sons though had inherited the Estermont pale green eyes. When Renly and Morla had taken their seats, the children took theirs. Cassana then offered to lead the prayer again, which besides listing the things his niece was thankful for—included prayers of safety for her father and mother.  
  
After the prayer had finished and the servants began to serve Renly and Morla their soup, his cousin tutted, “Not that it matters, seeing as Lady Lorra will likely be dead by sunrise.”  
  
“What?! No!” exclaimed Renly, astonished that his cousin would say such a thing in front of Cassana and Shireen—but the girls noticeably did not share his outrage.  
  
“Cousin, do not deceive yourself in this matter. The Stranger comes when he wills and there is nothing we can do about it.”  
  
“Aye, I know this, cuz—but do you have to say such things in front of…” Renly for the life of him could hardly bring himself to say Cassana’s and Shireen’s names aloud—for fear of what they might think of him.   
  
Any illusion of anonymity was lost shortly thereafter in Morla’s sighing reply, “The girls have heard far worse than that from fouler mouths than mine, not that it matters. Childish innocence is a pretty delusion most parents dupe themselves into thinking is preferable, when it isn’t a question of how best to preserve it, but merely when and how it will be lost.”  
  
He hardly spoke the rest of the meal—hoping that avoiding doing so would keep Morla’s depressing thoughts to herself—which it did, and he retired to his own rooms early, claiming exhaustion from the journey. He heard a knock at the door not long after he’d pulled his boots off and threw off his gold and black traveling doublet from his lanky frame in frustration. He opened his door to find Cassana standing there. She rushed into the room eagerly and without a word hugged him with every ounce that her five namedays could muster. Cassana didn’t say anything after he kicked the door closed. Nothing else needed to be said, and like the night before he had left Storm’s End, he let her crawl into his bed and lay close to him, and he comforted her. They remained that way for the rest of the night, Renly finding the best sleep he’d ever had since leaving for the war.  
  
Come morning, the news of Lorra’s passing was announced in the Small Hall to the entire family by Morla. Renly felt cold upon hearing it. Maester Cressen said that he had done the best that he could to stop the bleeding, but nothing had worked, and so Lorra had died.  
  
Later in the solar, when it came time to discuss how the news should best be handled to Stannis, all the adults present from Maester Cressen, the Septon, cousin Morla, Ser Cortnay, and even Ser Brandon were invited to give their say. Renly had only been asked into the room out of politeness it seemed—and that made him angry. After hearing Morla explain that it mattered very little how they told Stannis, Renly interrupted the conversation with a shout.  
  
“I will do it!”  
  
Maester Cressen and Ser Cortnay looked at him with sad smiles upon their faces. The Septon and cousin Morla frowned, and Ser Brandon seemed to grin like a fool at Renly’s outburst.  
  
“You are quite young to do such a task,” clucked Morla.  
  
Renly continued, driving the point home, “It must be me, and no one else!”  
  
“You need not trouble yourself, my Lord I—” began Maester Cressen.  
  
“I am nearly three and ten namedays—almost a man grown. If I cannot write to my brother and liege lord about the death of his wife, then how will I, the Lord of Summerhall, communicate any future unpleasant news?” he queried. And he cut off Morla’s retort before she could likely deny him his lordship by adding with a bombastic fury, “I will write it and that is it!”  
  
The letter was hard to write, Renly had to admit. He went through at least five drafts—wasting parchment, but Renly didn’t care. This letter had to be right.  
  
 _To Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord Admiral of the Royal Navy, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm’s End,_  
  
 _Brother,_  
  
 _It grieves me to tell you this, but while giving birth to your son Ormund and daughter Annalys, your beloved Lorra died. I managed to come just before she died and read her your letter upon her insistence. I’d have you know she had heard your words, and cherished them. Maester Cressen has better described how she died than I could ever do in the missive attached. Cassana and Shireen are well, but they could do without having cousin Morla’s depressing council. Ormund and Annalys are hale and healthy additions to our family—with Maester Cressen saying Ormund looking quite like our father. I am leaving for Summerhall at the earliest opportunity—I wish I could stay here until your arrival, there’s so much I need to say to you that I cannot write so well, but I know Cassana and Shireen need you more than they do me, and you can’t come until Harbert relieves you, so I must go and relieve our great uncle._  
  
 _I am truly sorry, brother,_  
  
 _Renly, Lord of Summerhall_  
  
It wasn’t a perfect letter, but by this draft he’d come to the conclusion that no matter how he tweaked it, some things were just nearly impossible to write well about.  
  
He left for Summerhall at the end of the sennight, straight after Lorra’s burial in the crypts below Storm’s End. Cassana had cried to see him leave, and he had been reluctant to leave her, but he knew the longer he lingered at Storm’s End, the longer it would be until Stannis came. And so, out into the few inches of snow did they travel. Winter seemed to be waning, as the snow was a sloshy mess which made the road muddy. On a few trees, Renly even saw a few buds peeking out to spite the cold air.  
  
Storm’s End was just out of sight when Ser Brandon broke the ice about them, “You handled yourself quite well, my lord, if I do say so myself.”  
  
“Did I, Ser Brandon?” asked Renly woefully.  
  
Ser Brandon added, “Aye, from what I saw, Lady Morla was a sad sack of shit fouling up an already foul smelling lot.”  
  
“She is my cousin, Ser Brandon,” warned Renly, with an edge to his voice.  
  
The knight scoffed, “Even worse, for family should know better than to say such things aloud.”  
  
“Have you much family?” asked Renly, wanting to speak of anything but Morla.  
  
“Aye. I’m the third son of four, with two sisters besides. Well, I _had_ two sisters… Deidre died before the recent war.”  
  
“What of?” asked Renly rather sharply.  
  
Ser Brandon continued rather amicably, “The pox—she, her husband, and her two little girls were all taken by the Stranger. All that’s left is her two boys—the Stranger nearly had the youngest one, but my mother fought him tooth and nail to keep the lad. She does the best she can with ‘em overall. The eldest is squired to my brother Corwyn and the second boy to the Lord of Tarth.”  
  
Hearing how blithely Ser Brandon spoke of the death of his sister’s family, he asked, “Did you and your sister share cross words?”  
  
“Nay, of the two I always loved Deidre more than Fyona, but why do you ask that?” questioned Ser Brandon as he turned to look at Renly.  
  
Renly avoided saying his suspicions—not wishing to offend the knight. He might find Ser Brandon’s easy-going attitude a bit callus, but Renly had to remind himself that he was his squire now—and there were some things a squire did not challenge his knight on. His family was one of them.  
  
Ser Brandon however seemed to believe he’d worked out the issue, saying with a slight chuckle, “You have been around your cousin for far too long, my lord. She’s got one thing right though—death is inevitable—but that hardly means you just jump into the nothing it brings with it. That’s simply giving up. Life continues… and you find you appreciate things better with a little taste of death—or in your case a bit more than just a slight taste.”  
  
A bird landed nearby on a wet branch heavy with moist snow. It began to chirp a merry little tune and at a far distance Renly heard a few others reply to its call.  
  
“How did you—” began Renly.  
  
Ser Brandon answered with a smirk, “Know? I see and hear all sorts of things—I know it may seem odd, considering how I talk on and on like I do, but folk are folk no matter where you go—high or low born, understand some, and you can better understand others.”  
  
Renly’s immediate gut reaction was to start by saying, “That’s—”  
  
Ser Brandon gave Renly a sly look and said, “Heretical? Seditious? That’s what your Septon would say to hear me speak now. Good thing I keep the Old Gods—like my mother.”  
  
“I thought that most families in the south took the new gods,” countered Renly, still not convinced that “folk were folk”. He had a hard time believing he, the blood of Storm Kings and Dragons was much the same as a smallfolk farmer.  
  
The smirk on Ser Brandon’s face became impossibly larger, “Aye, but my mother’s of the North, y’see.”  
  
“And they hold such opinions up there?” queried Renly.  
  
“Well, when the snows come and the winter winds blow, blood matters much less than what a man does,” added Ser Brandon.  
  
They continued speaking on the subject and others for the rest of their travels, Renly finding some respite in doing so, and his spirits lifting. Things would be better, he concluded at long last. Aye they could be horrible, but they wouldn’t necessarially always be so. And with such a thought, Renly arrived at Summerhall and took his place as its new lord.


	78. Elia VI

**ELIA**  
  
The end of the Second War for the Stepstones, as it was now being called, brought with it many political headaches for Elia to consider. At the end of the Ninepenny War the borders of the Stepstones had been drawn in Tyrosh’s favor as a concession for losing some holdings in the disputed lands. Now with the utter submission of the merchant free city, they had lost all of their Stepstones possessions to the Iron Throne, while being reduced to a narrow strip of coast land in the disputed lands, with Myr and Lys feasting quite well on Tyrosh’s former holdings. Officially, the Stepstones, save for the Lyseni stones, were a Crown Protectorate, under the oversight and protection of the Iron Throne directly, and the Iron Throne would be charged with ensuring pirates never again took sail amongst the stones. They were not considered a separate Kingdom themselves, but a separate region answerable to the crown alone. When Tyrosh had been brought into submission, suddenly the Pentosi diplomat wished to meet her. Rumors of the “Bloody Wolf’s” “War Wolves” had reached the ears of the Pentoshi Prince, who was rather eager to keep his city from meeting a similar fate to that of Tyrosh. The attack on Myr was ended thus before the King could send anyone to assist the Myrish, which Elia was quite glad for. It was one thing to lose Westerosi lives fighting against one’s own declared enemies. It was another losing them in a series of wars abroad in which the connection to the original enemy grew weaker and weaker, and Tyrosh was already enough of a skip down that road for her own tastes.  
  
“So the tolls through Tyrosh and Robert’s Port shall be decided by future diplomats appointed by each of our cities, who will meet once every five years or so to discuss their effectiveness?” clarified Lynorra Rogare in the specific meeting behind held between her and Mykaer Qarl of Myr.  
  
“Aye, so in 296 we will meet in Robert’s Port to discuss this matter once again,” stated Elia.  
  
“Along with the new Queen’s representative from Tyrosh,” added Lynorra, with a certain emphasis on the word Queen. That had been a tough part to sell. The undermining of the self-determination of Tyrosh through the declaring of a Queen was a hard thing to swallow. Thankfully Lord Arryn had wrote to her of the Council of Twelve which would advise the new Queen, and at least to the Lyseni and Myrish do the actual ruling for the next five years at the very least, though the matter of the Queen being about the age of Lynorra’s own son seemed to at least smooth matters with the Rogare diplomat. What had been an even harder sell was the news that the King had already begun to parcel out the Stepstones to those which struck the King’s fancy—most especially the promise of the largest of the islands, Bloodstone—save for the city of Robert’s Port and its surrounding environs—to his own bastard son, Robb Rivers should he prove himself worthy of the task. Parcelling out land to loyal nobles, Elia could understand, giving the seat of the new port city to his great uncle, Elia could understand, but reserving so much land for his bastard son who was but a boy of seven namedays was foolish. If he had already shown himself of some skill that would be one thing, but to lay aside the land in hopes that he would prove himself was not wise, and Elia wondered if Denys had washed his hands of the affair after a long round of wrangling with the King’s stubborn will. And what’s more, she had even heard rumors of the King promising Lord Stark that his bastard son could have an island as well. Although the lad was Ashara’s son, Elia hoped by the Seven that Lord Stark had turned such an offer down. To be seen raising their bastards up without them proving their worth first was a step far too close to Daemon Blackfyre—and the last thing the Iron Throne needed was for the Stepstones to become known as “the Bastard Stones”. Elia caught Mykaer referring to the entire process of settlement and parceling as “seeding the stones” when he thought her not listening, and Lynorra too had seemed rather displeased. Lys after all controlled two prominent southern Steptones plus the Shellstone that they had laid a disputed claim to and had served as Euron Greyjoy’s hideout. She was likely thinking of what would happen in a generation or two when the Westerosi Stepstones might not prove enough for them.  
  
These and other fears, Elia would did her best to assuage as diplomatically as she could, but she was not so much a fool to think that they wouldn’t be wary of Westeros, now that Tyrosh was so humbled.  
  
Hoster, bless his heart, was more attentive in meeting with her—not just for discussions concerning their relations with their allies and the political haggling she was forced to endure as the new Lady Diplomat, but also because she suspected he truly wished to. She found herself looking forward to taking meals with him more often than not—with only some meeting either had to not break bread together. The Queen Dowager, whom Elia was still rather upset with considering her accusations against Oberyn, seemed to look upon their developing relationship with a kind of benevolent agreement. On occasion Elia found her meals with Hoster included her goodmother—though Elia took note Lord Wardon Bonifer Hasty never made an appearance—and the two got on quite well discussing how court had been under her grandfather and her father, reminiscing about old glories that Elia sometimes found herself rather bored with. However Hoster took note of this and often brought Rhaenys—who always dined with them—into the conversation, asking what she thought of the topic at hand. Her little dragon did not disappoint Elia. She knew why her goodmother was on occasion invited to come, Hoster meant well by trying to get them to reconcile, and Elia knew that she and her goodmother for Rhaenys’ sake should make amends, but Elia was determined not to be the first Martell to bow, bend or break. Aerys had forced her with Aegon—here Elia had a choice, and she would honor her house words first and foremost.  
  
This particular evening they were discussing the plans for Rhaenys’ upcoming nameday tournament. Elia, while not wishing to short shrift her daughter, thought it a rather tacky and callus thing to hold a tournament as the men returned home from war, winter was at an end, and the smallfolk were grumbling about the price of bread—if Oberyn’s eyes and ears could be believed. Rhaenys, being but a child did not find tournaments very entertaining. She was not especially romantic, and found the way the knights and warriors slashed at each other mercilessly in the melee to horrifying. When she had been eight namedays old, she’d cried and become incolsolable upon seeing one of the men smash another’s knee. And the tournament when young Willas Tyrell had tilted against Oberyn and then been dragged across the grounds by his horse had caused Rhaenys to cling to Elia and bury her face at the sight.  
  
Now, with her coming womanhood, her little dragon took a different approach. “Why do I need to have a tournament for my nameday? What’s so special about being one and ten anyway?”  
  
“You are a princess of the blood royal, it is tradition  
  
“Well I think it’s a stupid idea. The knights and warriors should have had enough of a taste of war in the Stepstones—and it’s a waste of gold too. There are smallfolk starving in the streets! We should be spending our gold on giving them bread and—”  
  
“Where did you hear such arguments?” queried Rhaella, with an eye shifted towards Elia in that instant.   
  
Hoster interjected before the matter could develop further, “There are some things which a tournament does which giving bread cannot do, my Princess. Yes Tournaments can—when taken to an excess—be something of a waste of gold as you so well put it, but they can also be a source of gold as well.”  
  
“What do you mean?” asked Rhaenys.  
  
Hoster was usually quite good speaking with Rhaenys. He never talked down to her like he did not expect her to understand, instead he spoke as openly with her as he would a son, and this Elia rather liked about him. She recalled he had raised two daughters. No doubt he’d done much the same with them as he did now with Rhaenys. This evening was no exception as he jumped right into the conversation, “Except for a few upstart merchants, for the large part it’s the nobles who have the gold. They have the property and incomes to generate the bulk of our wealth. There is just one problem—most of them are quite sound with their spending of gold and they horde it to themselves. A tournament gives our nobles the chance to spend their gold and spread it around to blacksmiths, tailors, inn keeps, and other petty merchants who’d otherwise go hungry without the patronage of our nobles. And from them, they spread the gold out further to reeves and farmers for things that they need. So you see, a good tournament can spread enough gold around so that the smallfolk can then buy their own bread.”  
  
Rhaenys was quick to notice something that not even Elia had considered, “So then, how can other merchants get so much of it, if all gold comes from the nobles?”  
  
“They make themselves indispensable to nobles, perhaps,” commented Hoster looking to Elia with pleading eyes, worried that he had dug himself a hole in which he could not escape.  
  
Elia obliged Hoster by interjecting, “My you are one for questions this evening my little dragon.”  
  
It was then that Rhaenys turned to Elia and said quite solemnly, “If I am to be Queen one day, then I must know much to be a strong right hand to my husband.”  
  
The words tasted a bit sour on Elia’s palate—as though they were too well rehearsed, but Rhaella beamed quite proudly.  
  
“Oh Rhaenys, you will make a fine Queen one day, if you keep with your lessons.”  
  
It was then one of the Hasty twins, Aelinor, put down her silverware and asked quite seriously, “Mother, will I ever be queen?”  
  
At this Rhaella turned her attention to her Hasty-colored daughter and said, “No, my sweet, you’ll be something even better than a Queen.”  
  
“What?” asked Aelinor blithely.  
  
“A Septa,” declared Rhaella as if she truly believed being a Septa was indeed better than a Queen—and Elia, considering her experience with being Queen, couldn’t blame her for thinking so.  
  
“But I thought Baelor was going to be High Septon—what can I do if he’s to be High Septon?” pouted Aelinor.  
  
Rhaella seemed lost for words, as if she had not considered the matter completely. She managed to catch herself though by saying, “Why, you could be head of an order of Septas… Nerys will teach Rhaenys’ children, and Baelor will be High Septon, but you could always be a Holy Mother of other Septas.”  
  
“And will my daughters be Septas too?” Aelinor pressed further.  
  
“You’ll live a chaste life, as one purely devoted to the Maiden should,” added Rhaella.  
  
Aelinor nodded and then asked the question Elia knew any child of nearly six namedays would ask, “What does chaste mean?”  
  
“It means you won’t have any children,” chimed Rhaenys with a bit of annoyance to her voice. Elia gave her daughter a meaningful look. Her half-aunts were after all half her age, not half-wits.  
  
“But I will be the mother of Septas…” whined Aelinor.  
  
“A Holy Mother of Septas is simply a name for what a leader of an order of Septas is called, my Lady,” interjected Hoster as he cut into his cut of pork loin.  
  
“So then I won’t really be a mother?” asked Aelinor with worried eyes.  
  
“If mother says you won’t, then you won’t,” chimed in Aelinor’s Targaryen colored twin, Naerys,” as though she didn’t understand why Aelinor could be so upset. Naerys then returned her attention to little Baelor who had returned to stuffing his chubby mouth with his hands instead of using the spoon provided for him. Rhaenys looked on with how Baelor chewed with his mouth half open with disgust—no doubt unimpressed with his future Holiness.  
  
Rhaella smoothed the trouble over, rubbing her daughters’ back while saying, “No, my sweet, but you shall be like a mother to other girls who devote their lives to the Faith.”  
  
“But I wan’t to be a mother… a real mother… like you,”   
  
At this Rhaella’s lip seemed to quiver, but whatever she would have said next Elia never knew. It was then that one of Hoster’s guards, Bryn, came in saying that Lord Warden Hasty wished to come in.  
  
“So he’s finally accepted my invitation then? Well don’t leave him outside, show him in, Bryn!”   
  
Rhaella’s lord husband entered the room, flanked with a few guards dressed in the surcoats that distinguished them as members of the Holy Hundred.  
  
“Bonifer, what is going on?!” exclaimed Rhaella, completely caught off guard by the appearance.  
  
Her goodmother’s husband made a big show of bowing once before saying, “Princess Elia, I have been charged by the High Septon to bring you to Visenya’s Hill so that you may speak with him.”  
  
Speak with the High Septon? Elia knew what those words actually meant.  
  
Hoster’s eyes went wide and he boomed in that instant, “What!”  
  
“For what cause?” asked Elia, her eyes narrowing to her goodmother’s husband.  
  
The Lord Warden looked to his children and Rhaenys before meeting Elia’s eyes and saying, “I would rather not say in front of the children.”  
  
“You stormed in here to make a scene despite knowing the children were here,” insisted Hoster with a rather red face.  
  
“To be completely honest, I was unaware of the children’s presence,” countered Bonifer.  
  
“Why does my mother have to leave?” chimed in Rhaenys at that moment.  
  
Bonifer seemed to pause for a moment, as if to consider whether he truly wanted to answer the question.  
  
“Answer her, Bonifer. My granddaughter and gooddaughter deserve to know the truth!” insisted Rhaella at that moment, who seemed rather upset about the entire affair.  
  
“And Baelor will be the High Septon one day! He should know as well!” chimed in Naerys at that moment, completely oblivious to the true meaning of everything that was occurring.  
  
“That is a matter between her and the High Septon,” admitted Bonifer rather reluctantly. He then turned to  
  
“Not without first knowing what it is I am to answer before the High Septon,” countered Elia.  
  
“There, you have to tell us!” declared Rhaenys.  
  
“You will not come of your own volition then?” questioned Bonifer with a beleaguered sigh.  
  
 _Unbowed, Unbent, unbroken._  
  
Elia answered how a Martell could only answer, “No, I will not.”  
  
“I am sorry, Princess that it has to come to this,” he said with much sincerity before nodding to one of his guards. Elia then found her wheeled chair being taken possession by one of these guards and pulled back from the table. Elia tried to resist—running her hands counter to the movement on the wheels, but he had the momentum and strength to override her attempts to remain at the table.  
  
“Bonifer, I implore you to stop,” spoke Rhaella in a distressed manner that shocked Elia.  
  
Bonifer sighed as if tired of the whole affair and shook his head as he said, “It is out of my hands, my love.”  
  
“The Princess is a princess, and a member of the small council besides!” insisted Hoster.  
  
“Again, Lord Tully, she is not under arrest, the High Septon wishes to only speak with her,” responded Bonifer, though he had as hard a time convincing Hoster as he had herself with that line. Elia had heard of many Septons and Septas who had been asked to “speak with the High Septon” and then only descended from Visenya’s Hill for execution or a walk of shame.  
  
“Bryn, Davys, don’t just stand there!” shouted Hoster. His guards then moved to intercede with the men of the Holy Hundred, which Elia was attempting to keep from pushing her out of the room as much as she could. If only she could kick.  
  
“I would not advise that, Lord Tully. The Princess is not under arrest for any reason, she is merely being summoned to speak with his holiness—but I can assure you that interfering with his holiness’ business is a crime—as the law states.”  
  
“By what law? I am the King's Hand. I am the--” began Hoster.  
  
Bonifer answered as though he had said this a thousand times already, saying, “The law decreed during King Baelor’s reign.”  
  
At this Hoster’s guards faltered, looking to Hoster, who was at a loss for words.  
  
And then the unthinkable happened, her dragon, her little dragon rose from her chair and grabbed the arm of the guard who meant to escort Elia from the room.  
  
“Let go of my mother!” roared her little dragon—a rage overtaking her like none that Elia had ever seen in her sweet girl. The guard tried to shrug Rhaenys’ grip off gently, but her daughter held on even tighter, pulling harder at his arm to try and upset his balance.  
  
“Rhaenys!” called out Rhaella.  
  
Aelinor cheered on her niece, while Naerys looked positively horrified. Little Baelor clapped and laughed like any toddler might at the sight, likely thinking it all some game.  
  
“Don’t even think of touching my daughter,” warned Elia darkly to a guard who seemed ready to pull Rhaenys off his brother in arms and faith.  
  
The first guard however shook his arm and sent Rhaenys flying off of it as easily as if he were tossing a doll. With much shock Elia stared in horror as her daughter flew across the room… and in the last moment into Hoster’s arms—the blessed man jumping at the last second to catch her and preventing disaster from striking.  
  
Rhaella was furious, Elia flooded with relief as she looked at the heavy breathing Lord Hand with gratitude, and Rhaenys was shocked from the whiplash. That shocked look was the last she saw of her daughter before being shunted from the room by Bonifer’s guards. To herself, Elia gave a small prayer of thanks to the Mother, and wished the Stranger hurry and take the guard who had nearly harmed her little dragon.  
  
 _May he know Fire and Blood._


	79. Catelyn III

**CATELYN**  
  
It was an unpleasant task, but since taking up the cup of Lady of Winterfell, she had been forced to drink to many an unpleasant task. This one especially was distasteful considering it involved one of her staff. Lyra’s belly was about to burst she was so heavy with child. The girl had tried to hide it with layers and ill-fitting clothes, and Catelyn was astonished she’d managed to evade detection for this long. But the truth came out, just as it always did. Now alone in a room with Old Nan and Bridget, Catelyn’s head maid, the poor girl was bawling out her eyes as she sat in a chair in the midst of the common sleeping quarters the maids shared, surrounded by the three women.  
  
She sighed, and told herself it was for the girl’s own good.  
  
Catelyn insisted for the umpteenth time, “You will tell us the name of the man who seduced you, Lyra.”  
  
“I can’t!” sobbed Lyra.  
  
“Were you such an impudent slut that you spread your legs for so many men then?” snapped the portly and greying Bridget.  
  
Panicked, Lyra shouted, “No! It was one time… my only time… honest I swear it! Take me to the godswood and I shall swear before the heart tree!”  
  
Such an invocation held sway between Bridget and Old Nan. It was thought that no one could lie before a weirwood. Given the raven’s powers, Catelyn wondered if there was indeed truth to this old folk legend. Either way after such a proclamation Bridget eased off in her interrogation.  
  
“Then tell us the name, child. ‘Tis no good you protect such a vile seducer,” tutted Old Nan kindly.  
  
“The only reason we ask, Lyra, is for your benefit,” Catelyn reasoned, laying her hand gently upon the girls’ shoulder. Lyra flinched at the touch at first but then slowly looked up as Catelyn continued, “We must at least know his name so that he can be forced to pay the consequences of his actions and do right by you and your child. Do you truly wish for your child to be born a bastard and bear the name of Snow?”  
  
“Tell us his name and he can throw a cloak around your shoulders—and make an honest woman of ya,” spat Bridget.  
  
Lyra quietly admitted, “No… I don’t want my babe to be a bastard… but… he… he’d never marry _me_.”  
  
“The man’s already married—the more shame on him!” growled Bridget.   
  
“No! He’s not… at least as far as I know…” admitted Lyra at once.  
  
Silence but for Lyra’s attempts to quell her sobs took hold of the room for a moment.  
  
“We can only help you child, if you tell us his name,” croaked Old Nan from her perch upon her chair.  
  
“I _can’t_!” cried Lyra.  
  
“You won’t, you mean!” blustered Bridget, but Catelyn sensed meaning behind the girl’s emphasis this time.  
  
“Do you not know the name of your seducer?” asked Catelyn rationally. She felt a kick from her own child—the little wolf seemed rather active within her of late. She hoped it meant he or she would be as healthy and hale as all her other pups were, and that this one would come out far more easily than Bran had.  
  
Lyra sniffled, wiped her eyes with her hands and nodded her head quite slowly, before closing her eyes and crying once again.  
  
Bridget crossed her arms and sighed, “Tell us what he bloody looked like then.”  
  
“He…” began Lyra.  
  
“Go on child…” urged Old Nan.  
  
But Lyra broke into tears again. Bridget’s patience had about worn thin and it was at that moment she strutted up to Lyra and grabbed her by the wrist, causing the girl to squeal in response.  
  
Bridget fumed, “You will tell us everything you can about this wicked impudent seducer, or… you’ll be left to the streets of Wintertown!”   
  
At this Lyra’s eyes went wide and she turned her head to Catelyn, who simply wanted to wash her hands of the entire thing right there and then.  
  
 _Please… no… Bridget… no…_  
  
Catelyn sighed and then spoke, “While I would encourage her to curb her tongue when speaking about such matters, Bridget is completely correct that it is within my power to leave you on the streets of Wintertown.”  
  
“It would be a harsh punishment, but I’ve seen far worse in my time here… much worse during the she-wolves…” mumbled Old Nan as she began muttering to herself under her breath.  
  
Lyra pleaded, “Please, your ladyship, it was one mistake, just one mistake!”  
  
Catelyn gave Bridget a brief glare and then steeled herself before continuing, “Many would tell me that to keep a woman who swells with child outside of marriage in my service is to invite sin into my home and encourage more to do the same. I’m sure that neither you nor I would care to hear such tongues wagging… but if you just tell us who the man is, then you may marry and everything shall work out for the best… given the situation.”  
  
Lyra nodded and taking a few deep breaths she seemed ready to say something.  
  
It was then a knock was heard at the door. Catelyn suppressed the urge to groan as she shouted for whoever it was to wait. But the knock persisted yet again. Annoyed, Catelyn strode to the door and opened it to find little Den Snow standing there.  
  
“What is it?” asked Catelyn impatiently.  
  
The boy spoke falteringly, but determinedly as he said, “I—if you please, Lady Catelyn…R—robb asked me to tell you that he n—needs to speak with you.”  
  
“Is that all?” she asked rather quickly, irritated that she had been interrupted for such a trivial matter. Why hadn’t her son come himself for such a task?  
  
“In the godswood… he said it had to be in the godswood,” Den added nervously before nodding.  
  
“Thank you, Den,” replied Catelyn curtly before shutting the door quite quickly on his shocked face. When she turned around she saw Lyra had been staring towards the door behind Catelyn. Bridget had noticed this.  
  
“Any reason, girl, you took to staring after the little Snow?” prodded her head maid.  
  
Old Nan piped up then, “It isn’t the first time I’ve seen her look at the boy so. She nearly burned her hand one morning in the nursery when she came in to light the fire when the lad was playing with young Lords Rickon and Brandon.”  
  
In an instant Catelyn knew, and she chided herself for not knowing it immediately.  
  
She declared it openly for the entire room to hear, “Arthur Dayne. You slept with Arthur Dayne.”  
  
Of course it would be the Dornishman. It was _always_ the Dornishman. Thinking of the Dornish made Catelyn wonder about the young snowy Dornishman who was a brother to her eldest son.  
  
 _Might I be having this conversation again in a few years time? Several times?  
_  
  
Catelyn truly hoped not. She hadn’t sifted through all the tales the boy’s wet nurse had told her about the various Swords of the Morning, found only the most valiant--ignoring all of the Swords of the Evening--and told them to her husband’s bastard only to have him be like any other Dornishman. She knew she was fighting an uphill battle, but Catelyn thought it possible to win it.  
  
“The knight that looks like little Den, aye,” answered Lyra honestly.  
  
Catelyn corrected her, saying, “He’s not a knight, Lyra. The King stripped him of his knighthood for failing his vows.”  
  
“Now we know exactly how,” tutted Bridget almost triumphantly.  
  
“He’s of noble birth, though… that much I knew… he’d never marry a girl like me…” Lyra cried.  
  
“And worse of all, he’s Dornish… they don’t consider bastards worth the trouble of marrying for…” quipped Bridget.  
  
“But they do make fine lovers…” sighed Old Nan wistfully with a small smile upon her face. Catelyn did her best to ignore the thoughts of Old Nan and any Dornishman… seven hells of Old Nan and any man lying together.  
  
“All the easier to trick a poor girl out of her virtue and chastity,” added Catelyn grimly.  
  
There was nothing to be done. The child would arrive before Arthur Dayne could hear word of its existence, let alone return to marry Lyra.  
  
“You will simply have to marry another man,” chimed in Bridget.  
  
“Most Northern men she’d marry would likely beat her child for its bastardy—I’d rather throw the girl out on the streets of Wintertown than show her that 'mercy'… at least the streets don’t hit back,” calmly added Old Nan as she gripped her bony hands tightly.  
  
Before Catelyn could say anything, Bridget corrected Old Nan, “The She-Wolves are dead, Nan. No one tolerates beating a child for its bastardy anymore. Least of all, Lord Eddard.”  
  
Old Nan however seemed lost in memory, “Aye… poor little Lonny Snow…”  
  
“Nan, you weren’t even born when Lonny Snow lived,” countered Bridget.  
  
  
“No… but I heard the tales from Old Eda. She’d played with Lonny as a girl… and the things that old Lady Alys did to that boy… It didn’t help matters that he was born in a crannog, but even so... some things are best forgotten,” continued Old Nan as if the stories she’d heard were too much for her to tell—she who told scary stories of Others and their ice spiders, could hardly find it in her to even mention the story of a bastard boy who she’d had some distant connection to. It sent chills down Catelyn’s spine.  
  
“If I marry, I won’t be thrown out, will I?” asked Lyra, who at long last had gotten control of herself.  
  
“Lyra—” began Catelyn, fully intending to withdraw the threat of throwing the poor girl out of the castle.  
  
“I’ll marry,” declared Lyra definitively with a determined nod before adding through a few sobs, “I’ll marry Wyll. He… he’s always been good to me. Even got me clothes when mine became too small…”  
  
Catelyn recalled one of the guards who claimed to be skilled with a very subtle knife who went by the name of Wyll, and nodded her head. It would be better this way.  
  
 _Wyll will take care of her, and I’ll see to it that Arthur does his bastard._  
  
“A good choice, girl… the lad’s eyes are only for you,” assured Old Nan, with a strained smile.  
  
Catelyn then took her leave, japing that she apparently was being summoned by the little Lord of Winterfell himself. Uneasily the other women laughed with her as she left the room. As she journeyed to grab her thick fur-lined wool cloak.   
  
The snows were quite deep, but a path had been cleared straight to the godswood. She found Robb praying before the godswood. She had thought to leave him finish by standing there in silence, but she was startled when he interrupted his prayers to say, “The raven wants to know why you haven’t eaten a seed yet, mother.”  
  
Although Robb’s young voice sounded ridiculous saying such a thing, Catelyn still felt a shudder when he did.  
  
“I do not keep the Old Gods… faithfully,” countered Catelyn, though she felt uncomfortable admitting so in front of the heart tree that she had prayed to once—only once. There was just something about that face carved into its side.  
  
“And yet you prayed to them, mother… and when they answered you, you turned your back on them.” Her son then turned and his eyes seemed to freeze her in that instant. It was as though they had turned an icy blue.  
  
Catelyn was left speechless at the sight of her son. There was something behind his stare  
  
Robb then eased, took her hand and placed something small into her hand, saying, “Eat a seed mother… all the raven wishes to do is talk…”  
  
He then left her alone in the godswood to consider the matter. Catelyn opened her gloved hand to see a single white weirwood seed. It looked so small in her hand. She looked up once again at the heart tree—the eyes of the weirwood seeming to stare at her, goading her to eat, but something held her back. Catelyn couldn’t say what, but something did not seem right.  
  
The evening meal of salted chicken smothered liberally with a walnut sauce to moisten it up and served with rice tasted a bit powdery for Catelyn’s taste—especially the walnut sauce—with an occasional bit of a hard shell she found difficult to chew and so she had to spit out. At first she had simply chalked it up to the servants being careless without Bridget to add her discerning eye this afternoon. That was easy enough to explain—but the odd powdery taste was not--nor was the odd tingling feeling that accompanied it. Throughout the meal Robb kept giving her odd looks.  
  
Lyanna was trapped by the deep snows, and encouraged to extend her visit at Winterfell by the King while he was off at war—for her and the children’s protection less some pirates or some Free City navy succeed in attacking the capital like they had attempted earlier. Lyanna was quite proud that it had been Benjen’s fleet that had not only saved the capital, but had his actions which had finished off . The way the young Queen went on from just the plain missives sent by raven, one imagined that Benjen had won the war entirely by himself.  
  
“Benjen’s ships are guarding our western shores,” reminded Catelyn tonight, tired of hearing Lyanna read aloud the letter she’d received from Benjen shortly after sending the Tyroshi fleet back—adding in flourishes that Catelyn, having read the letter herself, knew weren’t there—but Lyanna added for the sake of the children’s interest. Catelyn simply wished , mindful that the truth not be lost.  
  
“Aye, but there’s no doubt he led the rout nonetheless,” commented Lyanna with an eye to her closest lady-in-waiting, Lady Elyssa Waynwood, who smiled wanly. News of Lady Lorra Baratheon’s death had struck the poor girl hard. She rarely smiled without prompting from the Queen, who had been devoted to her dear lady-in-waiting’s grief for two days before seeming to slowly grow irritated by it—though never saying anything, at least in front of Catelyn.  
  
“Mother, may I squire with Uncle Benjen? May I?!” asked young little Durran eagerly. Of all the children he seemed the most interested in tales of the “Sailing Wolf” as Catelyn heard some speak of Benjen.  
  
Lyanna smiled and rubbed her hand through the thick black hair of her son before meeting his grey eyes and saying, “You’re far too young to squire… and your father would likely wish you to serve your uncle Stannis.”  
  
At this young Durran’s face faltered, for no stories were spoken of his uncle Stannis.  
  
“Your uncle Stannis is a fine man, my Prince” chimed in Lady Elyssa for the first time in a long time.  
  
“And what has he done to win the war?” harrumphed Durran with a decided pout.  
  
“Just goes to show that wolves are better than stags,” chimed in Rickon at that moment, with a sly grin to Durran. He was seated to Durran’s right, as Durran always insisted.  
  
“Rickon!” chided Catelyn.  
  
“But I’m a stag-wolf!” retorted Durran proudly to his Stark cousin.  
  
Lyanna’s smile grew even larger as the two cousins descended into a bit of shoving accompanied with some laughter. Farther down the table, Catelyn thought she saw Raynald Westerling roll his eyes. Ever since Theon’s confinement, the boy had been rather quiet, never willing to say anything without someone having to prompt him first—and even then it was usually only one or two word answers, or a move of his head. Now that the war was over, and it seemed the Ironborn weren’t going to attack, she thought she might ease up on the restrictions placed on the young Greyjoy lord—her father needn’t know after all.  
  
Lyanna, seeing her glance at the Westerlander lordling, then asked, “What should we do about Lord Theon?”  
  
Catelyn wanted to say that they should ease up on his confinement—it seemed only right, after all. The war was over, and he was her husband’s ward—not their prisoner.  
  
“We should leave him be, for the moment,” said her mouth, though she did not feel that they were her words, as strange as that seemed.  
  
It was then Catelyn began to feel rather tired, her eyelids weighing down as if they were too weighty to keep open. In the distance she heard a few people call for “mother” or “Catelyn” or “Lady Stark”, but they seemed quite far from where she was.  
  
 _She heard a voice speak to her, but could hardly make out the words. All around her was darkness and she felt as though she were falling through it. Still the voice spoke to her, but it sounded muffled and distorted. Occasionally she heard a word such as “blood” and “price” or a group of words like “take penance” and “the first Tully”. And then she began to dream._  
  
 _In her dreams she saw herself in summer upon a hilly landscape she knew as home—the Riverlands—and yet it was far different from what she knew it to be. It had more forestland, and the rivers seemed far bluer, the leaves on the trees greener, and life more vibrant and bright._  
  
 _She sat around in armor with her brothers in arms, but most especially the King… the King whose banner was brown as mud with a bronze crown upon it. That same King whose grey-streaked red hair and emerald eyes seemed familiar and yet quite foreign all the same._  
  
 _“To King Tristifer!” she called out, her voice a deep rumbling baritone._  
  
 _“To King Tristifer!” returned the rest, in a less enthusiastic tone._  
  
 _She took a swig from her cup—filled with a hard stout and looked to his sides to see boys—no men, his boys who were men grown. There was Axel sharpening his battle axe, Lucas narrowing his sky blue eyes so he could string his weirwood bow, Elmo—a bandage around his head causing his red hair to jut out in all directions and a spot of dried blood clinging to his forehead along with mud—spitting into a wound he’d taken on his arm before he pressed his heated spearhead to it to seal the wound. Elmo barely cried out as he held the flat of the blade to his arm. And when he was finished he began to wrap it with a cloth he tore from a banner. Her eyes darted to beside Elmo where an empty spot adorned with a sword that remained. She felt as though there should be one more… Brynden… aye—where was Brynden?_  
  
 _Dead… dead on the field… dead because I chose duty over my son’s life..._  
  
 _She looked to her King, who she had dragged from the battle over her son. Her king spoke, placing a hand upon her back in fraternal affection, “One more battle brother and we’ll break Vances and drive these Andals back into the mountains from which they came. Just one more battle.”_  
  
 _“Can we take one more battle?” she asked grimly, looking around to the camp of wounded men, old men, and very young boys._  
  
 _“We must, Edmure… we must,” said the King as he took a sip of his own ale._  
  
 _It was then from amongst the men a small, cat-like and child-like creature appeared, dressed in a tunic woven with leaves, and skin that was dappled like a doe’s._  
  
 _“Ahh, Root, come to scare me once more? Ninety-nine battles have I won, and yet here do I still stand!”_  
  
 _“Foolish man, to tempt the gods so. Several times before I have given you warning, King Tristifer, and each you have failed to listen. You will not drive the Andals from these lands, the hour of the First Men is nearly done, and a new chapter will soon begin. My prophesy remains, you will not see a hundred victories, and death creeps close to you.”_  
  
 _“Does it?” laughed the King, which upset her. It upset her deeply to see the King take so_  
  
 _“Aye, death sits beside you this night,” declared Root._  
  
 _“Does death have a form, then? Can it shit and a fart as well?” laughed Tristifer. She felt it wrong for him to laugh so at the child’s words. But he had before, why should it change now?_  
  
 _Again she felt the king hold on to her tight in tender fraternal affection as he declared to the child, “Edmure may have a different mother, but he’s kept death from taking me before, and I trust him to do so again.”_  
  
 _“Then you are already dead,” spat the child before she turned and left the camp._  
  
 _“Where are you going? The grove is to the west!” called out King Tristifer, as if to provoke her by claiming she’d lost her way in her own forest._  
  
 _“The only place for me… King Tristifer… north, to the direwolves,” said the child before vanishing into the forest. The visit and public denunciation from the child already dampening the men’s beleaguered spirits._  
  
 _“Why the long faces? I’ve won every battle I’ve fought, I can win another just as easily,” dismissed the King, and then more quietly he said in a whisper that only she could barely hear, “And prove the gods wrong!”_  
  
 _The encampment seemed to fade from her view for a moment, and when it had returned it was hours later._  
  
 _Elmo was screaming in pain when she was called by Lucas to her now youngest’s side. He was foaming at the mouth and looked pale and sickly._  
  
 _Lucas, “The woodswitch says that with Root gone, her magic grows weak… she says we should prepare to bury him.”_  
  
 _Not again… she couldn’t lose another son…_  
  
 _And then she recalled the healers the Andals had—usually Tristifer had them killed when they took the Andal camp—claiming their gods’ sorcery would have no claim over those with blood of the First Men, but Edmure had seen a healer sealing up a wound on one of the scouting parties he’d led. Their fingers were nimble, and the herbs a new kind of magic._  
  
 _She took hold of her son and met his sky blue eyes—the same as hers—and made her intentions as clear as she could, “Do not begin to dig, Lucas. I will go and bring back what he needs.”_  
  
 _Lucas’ eyes bulged—he had always been her smart boy—and then nodded._  
  
 _King Armistead Vance was not hard to find. She simply had to follow the smell of the Andals. They stank something horrible—fearful of a good bath—and wore their hair long with rancid butter run through it. They dressed in tight leathers—their trousers leaving nothing to the imagination, and they had long, thick bushy mustaches—also streaked with butter. They were tall and fearsome to look at—some with small bones pierced through their noses or ears for decoration or intimidation, but Edmure stood his ground all the same. And then there was the star—the seven pointed star that was everywhere—upon their clothes, their arms, and some had even carved it into their skin as a kind of decoration. Edmure was disgusted by them, but she saw their healers, the only ones dressed in white furs with their heads bare of any hair._  
  
 _She entered the camp, carrying her sword above her head—still kept in its scabbard. At first she’d been greeted with a few who’d taken their own weapons and run up to her to make her flinch. She knew the custom. If they could make her flinch or drop her sword before she laid it before the King, they could kill her on the spot. So she did not flinch. All the while in her ears she heard Elmo groaning in pain._  
  
 _At long last she came to him—Armistead—the burly muscled man carried a large warhammer as if it were only a wooden mallet. The challenges grew more bold, some even drawing their swords to make her fumble—but Edmure kept going until she came before the Andal King and knelt, without dropping her sword, and then with one fluid motion laid it before the man who would now be her king. Bread and salt were tossed at her in disappointment that there'd be no shedding of blood.  
_  
  
 _In the horrible Andal tongue that she only half understood, the Andal King spoke.  
_  
  
 _“So the Mudd King’s bastard brother returns at last…” said Armistead._  
  
 _She flinched at the term bastard. Tristifer had used it often enough until she'd proven her worth in battle saving his life, but she kept her calm. In her barely competent Andal she said, “Aye… and I will fight for you, should your healers save my son.”_  
  
 _The burly King roared, “Conditions?! I would think you’d know that King Armistead doesn’t take conditions!”_  
  
 _Many of Vance’s men roared with approval._  
  
 _“I will do whatever you ask,” she declared._  
  
 _“Is that so? Then return to your king Tristifer, and pull out his heart in the battle we face on the morrow. Do that and I’ll knight you in the Seven, give you lands besides, and should your son live to see the end of the battle, my own personal healer shall see to him… fail me, and I’ll take your head myself after I force you to watch me slaughter your sons! Do you accept?”_  
  
 _Edmure knew that his son’s entire future was at stake… so she did the only thing she could do, “Aye. You shall have your heart, my King.”_  
  
 _The dream faded once again, and she found herself floating in darkness, unaware of where, when, or even who she was anymore. The voice spoke again, this time clearer to her._  
  
 _“Remember… remember!”_  
  
When she woke she found herself abed and feeling very well-rested. The room was rather brightly lit—though for being so early in the morn. She sat up and stretched her arms and…  
  
She looked to her stomach. Before she had been quite large with the next little wolf for her and Ned’s pack, but now that she looked at her stomach it seemed to have gone flat. She felt her body, as if worried the baby had somehow vanished further inside her body—as ridiculous an option as that seemed.  
  
Then in came Lyra, who also looked fine and healthy, and noticeably thinner.  
  
“My Lady, are you well?” asked Lyra with much confusion.  
  
“The babe… where’s my babe?” she asked frantically.  
  
“Little Edwyn? Why he’s in the crib my lady—where you put him.  
  
“Where I put—” she began but could not bring herself to finish.   
  
“Are you not feeling well?” asked Lyra pointedly.  
  
Catelyn rose from the bed, the hem of her night shift falling to meet the floor as she did. The crib was not far from her bed, and it was there she found her fifth child—another son. This one like Arya had the Stark coloring, looking exactly like Ned, and having a small tuft of brown hair upon his head. Why he was Ned in miniature, Catelyn realized.  
  
Upon seeing Edwyn, suddenly memories of birthing the boy less than a sennight past flooded her mind. At once they seemed strange and foreign to her, as though she were remembering memories that were and yet weren’t her own, but as she took in the sight of her Stark son, her little Ned—aye, for that’s what he was—she put aside all her worries, and accepted her memories.


	80. Edmure VI

**EDMURE**  
  
After being knighted in King’s Landing, he and the rest of his uncle’s former squires who still remained journeyed at once to the Stony Hedge to deliver Hendry’s bones to a grieved House Bracken. They all stood the vigil the night before he was to be sent by burning boat down the Red Fork. His uncle had grumbled about the idea of them all standing watch over Hendry’s bare bones when only one was needed, but Edmure had replied that it would be madness to think that they wouldn’t stand guard over him. He was their brother in arms, and to do less would be a disservice to his memory. This had satisfied his Uncle for the nonce.  
  
The following day the young Lady Barbara gathered them by the river, where Edmure along with his newly knighted brothers had carried Hendry’s bones upon a stretcher. Upon the main dock the entire Bracken household had gathered, servants and more distant relations alike. As Edmure walked across the wooden planks, he felt the dock groan beneath all their collective weight plus the coals in the brazier, and he worried that they all might fall into the Red Fork if any more joined them for the ceremony. They laid Hendry’s bones down upon the boat that was moored to the dock, half of them having to hand half the stretcher off to two servants who stood in the boat to help with this matter. After his bones were settled and the servants back on the dock, Hendry’s cape was laid atop of his bones and the Septon strode forth and blessed the boat and Hendry’s bones. When this had been finished the boat was untied and allowed to drift. It was here that Brynden Blackwood, Edmure noticed, began to look towards young Lady Bracken, as if expecting something. Lady Barbara held in her hands a willow bow and a quarrel of arrows. After a moment of waiting she then walked over to one of her family—likely her uncle from her mother’s side, given he was dressed in Hawick blue and white—who nodded and took the offered bow and arrow. As was tradition, Lady Barbara’s chosen archer lit the arrow in the brazier and then took his shot—hitting the boat easily.  
  
Edmure heard a heated sigh next to him, and turned to see Brynden rather upset. Later, when the somber feast had been held and the singers flooded the Great Hall of Stone Hedge with sad songs, including a new one about the Stepstones, Edmure found out all too easily just what had upset Brynden.  
  
“It’s an insult, a deliberate insult!” bemoaned the rather drunk Brynden.  
  
“That Lord Oswald shot the arrow and not you? He is Lady Barbara’s uncle,” proffered Liam Mooton.  
  
“But I requested the honor—I bloody well begged her. Gods damn the Brackens!” grunted Brynden before taking yet another swig of his ale. Edmure and Marq shared a worried look in that moment. The Blackwoods and Brackens rarely got along well, and the last thing Edmure wanted Hendry’s funeral to turn into was into some event to fuel the fire of the feud even further, and with the amount of ale Brynden was putting back, the chances of avoiding catastrophe were growing slimmer each second. Added to that the quantity of what he was drinking and even Edmure—who enjoyed a good amount of wine and ale—was starting to worry about how much Brynden had consumed.  
  
“Careful Brynden,” warned Marq, with a look towards the high table.  
  
Brynden grumbled further, “I don’t fucking care if she does hear me. It’s just another insult in a long line of them. I mean, it’s not like Lord Oswald is Hendry’s uncle.”  
  
At this Liam Mooton grinned like a cat that had found its cream, and said, “Actually, he is.”  
  
Brynden nearly choked on his ale, but after recovering he coughed a reply, saying, “G—gooduncles don’t count.”  
  
“Aye, but my mother and Hendry’s were sisters,” spoke a lady’s voice from directly behind Edmure and Brynden. Edmure turned his head to see Lady Barbara standing there. Edmure felt himself go red in the face in sympathetic shame for Brynden.  
  
Brynden was too drunk—or too much of a Blackwood—to feel any shame. But he at least he wasn’t drunk enough to forget the basics of manners as Brynden nearly slurred “Lady Barbara” in response.  
  
After all the proper acknowledgments were made, she then focused once more on Brynden, by asking, “Ser Brynden, I was wondering if I might have the opportunity to speak with you… in private?”  
  
“About the arrow?” assumed Brynden.  
  
“Aye, and _other_ matters,” stated Lady Barbara pointedly.  
  
“I would bloody well like to,” grumbled Brynden as he stood, nearly tumbling over as he did so, but only just managing not to do so. It was then Edmure recalled words his father had told him when teaching him the various relationships amongst the Riverlords.  
  
 _Never leave a Bracken and a Blackwood alone together if you can help it._  
  
“My lady, mayhaps I should come and—” began Edmure, hoping his presence might keep any conversation civil.  
  
“I thank you, Ser Edmure, but I must insist on the privacy,” countered Lady Barbara as she and Brynden then departed the Great Hall. Edmure looked after, hoping for Brynden to make it out of the hall before saying something to provoke Barbara. When they had exited the Hall without incident Edmure’s eyes returned to his fellow knights who each were looking amongst themselves, and they all shared the same concern he had—even Patrek. They left the table and exited the hall to hear heated voices in the distance down the corridor which connected the Great Hall to the Stallion’s Keep. At a little distance down the corridor they found Lady Barbara in the midst of giving Brynden a rather hard slap. Edmure felt his heart jump into his throat when he saw that.  
  
As her hand met Brynden’s cheek she fumed, “How dare you! You’re not the only one who—”  
  
Brynden seemed to brush aside the slap as if it were hardly something to be concerned with, “You said you’d allow it!”  
  
Lady Barbara nearly screamed out, “And my mother wouldn’t!” At this, Brynden seemed ready to say something, but when he saw the way in which Barbara held herself, he seemed to restrain himself, giving Barbara time enough to add, “She thought it wouldn’t be appropriate… and my uncles agreed with her. Hendry had just as much Hawick blood in them as Bracken they said.”  
  
Brynden’s harsh manner softened, as he said, “What of your castellan? Surely he should have backed your wishes.”  
  
Edmure was amazed at how quickly Brynden had turned his own wishes into Lady Barbara’s.  
  
Lady Barbara scoffed and said, “My Uncle Lewdorf _is_ my castellan.” She then turned away from Brynden, only to lay eyes directly upon Edmure.  
  
“Does the word privacy mean nothing to you Ser Edmure?!” yelled Barbara as she gave him a glower.  
  
“Forgive me my lady, but I—” began Edmure, who looked around to see the rest of his fellow knights had left him there.  
  
“You heard her, leave us be Edmure,” added Brynden. Lady Barbara looked to Brynden appreciatively at that moment, though Brynden was oblivious to it.  
  
“O—of course… I was simply concerned when I heard the yelling, is all,” said Edmure as he excused himself, feeling as though he had made an ass of himself. Around the next bend he found the rest of his fellow knights whom he tossed an irritated glare at.  
  
The most surprising thing came when the following morning Lady Barbara announced her intention to marry Brynden Blackwood before the entire collection of people assembled. Edmure noticed how Lord Hawick and Lady Barbara’s mother seemed rather unhappy at this announcement, while the rest of the hall sat in stunned silence until Uncle Brynden stood and raised a toast to the couple, which seemed to revive the hall enough to join him in raising their cups with him.  
  
When Brynden could at last be secluded to question him about the sudden betrothal, Brynden dismissed it saying “Brackens and Blackwoods have married many times in the past and will likely do so in the years to come.”  
  
“But you’re both set to rule your lands,” pointed out Marq.  
  
“Our children will take the Bracken name. My father has plenty of sons by his second wife,” answered Brynden bitterly.  
  
They arrived next at the Twins for the funeral which Edmure was most insistent to see performed—that of Perwyn. They were met at the gate to the southern fortress by a greying weasel-looking man who Edmure at first mistook for old Lord Walder, only to be shocked when he was greeted by his uncle as Ser Stevron, Lord Walder’s son and heir.  
  
 _Gods, how old must Lord Walder be?!_  
  
“My lord father welcomes you Lord Tully,” greeted Ser Stevron respectably.  
  
His uncle grimaced at being reminded of his lordship over Oldstones, but acknowledged it without further comment. They were brought into the receiving hall where bread and salt was already prepared. The sheer number of Freys Edmure took notice of was mindboggling. There were personal banners all over the place, the blue bridge of House Frey quartered with various houses from the Riverlands, Westerlands, Vale and Crownlands across many of the various Freys.  
  
Lord Walder was a very old man, ancient from Edmure’s perspective. His head was mostly bald except for a few stringy grey locks which clung to it in refusal to depart his head just yet. His face was not just weasel-like but narrowed, pinched, and wrinkled with age.  
  
“Ahh, Lord Blackfish, I must be dreaming to see more than one Tully willingly enter my receiving hall. Either that or I must be nearing my dotage at long last,” tutted Lord Walder as though he were a wheezy pipe organ.  
  
“Father!” called out Ser Stevron, seemingly genuinely shocked.  
  
"Don't father me. I'm not dead yet!" snapped Lord Walder to his own kin, and Ser Stevron stepped aside much embarrassed.  
  
“I come, Lord Walder to return the bones of a knight of your house who served me well as a squire,” answered Uncle Brynden as though he were trying to remain civil.  
  
Lord Walder heckled, “Have you? My how _generous_ , you are Lord Blackfish. But is that truly what’s inside that rubbish box you have your other squires holding for you then?”  
  
If Perwyn’s remains weren’t contained within the coffer, Edmure might have dropped it in anger at that comment.  
  
“I came to return your son’s bones to you, Lord Walder, not stand here and endure slights,” snapped his Uncle.  
  
Lord Walder answered with a smirk, “Did I slight you, Lord Blackfish? I must say that your skin’s grown thinner since ascending to a Lordship. I take it the other Tully looking lad is your nephew?”  
  
“Aye, Lord Frey,” answered Edmure for himself, before the conversation between his uncle and the Lord of the Crossing could deteriorate any further.  
  
Lord Walder's watery eyes peered up and down Edmure as though he were examining a cattle, “I hear you’re betrothed to a Dornish bitch. What isn’t any of my brood good enough for you or your family?”  
  
 _Oh Perwyn... how in the gods' name could you be sired from this… thing?_  
  
“I have not been officially betrothed, but that is my father’s design, aye,” he answered while telling himself to be as strong as steel.  
  
At this Lord Frey seemed surprised.  
  
“Don’t agree with your father, then? Well, you’re welcome to any of my get if you’d prefer,” offered Lord Walder.  
  
Edmure gulped, thinking instead of black hair and eyes.  
  
 _For Perwyn._  
  
“No, but I would request one thing of you, Lord Walder.”  
  
At this Lord Walder laughed, a wheezy laugh that sounded like a set of pipes that had rusted and grown brittle.   
  
“A Tully would request something of me? Did Stevron write to Lord Tully and say he wished to shock me to death?"  
  
At this, Edmure heard many calls from amongst the wide swath of Freys that Stevron would never do such a thing.  
  
"Quiet, you worthless lot! Let the young trout speak," dismissed Lord Walder.  
  
Edmure continued when quiet had returned to the hall, saying “I would like to request your son Olyvaar as my squire.”  
  
At this Lord Frey seemed to consider the matter for but a moment before his face grimaced and he then turned to Uncle Brynden.  
  
“If my liege’s son so desires it, then I must comply, mustn’t I?” sneered Lord Walder, seemingly disappointed with the request.  
  
His uncle said nothing in reply, as he seemed quite shocked himself.  
  
“Very well, what House Tully desires, House Tully shall receive. Don’t stand there gawking like a fish already boy, thank Ser Edmure for the _kindness_ he has in taking yet another son from me,” snapped Lord Walder distastefully.  
  
It was then Edmure saw a boy who didn’t share his father’s weasel-like countenance, but rather resembled a younger looking Perwyn with brown hair and grey-green eyes stepped forth from next to a smaller girl with the same shade of hair as him.  
  
“I—I’m honored Ser,” muttered the boy whom Edmure took to be Olyvar.  
  
Lord Walder interjected, “Of course you are, boy. We’re all honored by House Tully’s generosity. They give so much and _take_ so little in return.”  
  
After that rooms were to be shown to rooms to prepare for the evening meal. His Uncle cornered him when they had left the hall.  
  
“Taking a squire so soon?” queried his Uncle Brynden.  
  
Edmure nodded, and agreed, “Aye. Perwyn said he wanted to take his brother as a squire after the war and I thought—”  
  
His Uncle shook his head and interrupted with, “You didn’t think, Edmure—you rarely do. You’ve got too much of a woman’s heart to think straight. It was a mistake to ask it so soon. Lord Frey thinks we’ve merely exchanged one son of his for hostage for yet another.”  
  
"Let him. After the way he spoke of our house, perhaps he should think that," rounded Edmure.  
  
His uncle snorted before saying, "Aye, but House Frey will not always led by the Absent Lord Walder. And whoever his successor is likely thinking much the same."  
  
The funeral was the following day. Because the Green Fork was so swift, no attempt at shooting it with an arrow was made. The boat was lit on fire before it was pushed from the docks and in less than a minute the boat had scrambled down the river and around a nearby bend. Uncle Brynden wished to depart then, not wishing to spend another night under Lord Walder’s anemic care. Edmure almost followed him, until he saw one of the Frey women—though she did not have the look of a Frey—heavy with child lingering at the edge of the bank as the rest of the family departed. She was obviously distressed and still looking towards the bend around which Perwyn’s boat had disappeared. She was crying and trying to wipe the tears from her eyes with only her hands. It took Edmure but a moment to recall the girl that Perwyn had told him about. The one he’d loved but had been forced to marry his elder brother. Immediately, Edmure pulled out a silk handkerchief at that moment for her, which she took gratefully.  
  
“I thank you, Ser Edmure,” she answered.  
  
Edmure assured her, “It is my pleasure, my lady.”  
  
The lady smiled bitterly before saying, “Just like it’s the gods’ to take everything I love from me. First my father… then my sister… now Perwyn…”  
  
“Surely it can’t be all bad. You are with child,” pointed out Edmure.  
  
“Mayhaps the gods will take it from me too… or me from it—whichever would be more unkind,” despaired the young woman.  
  
“Come Sallei,” grunted one of the Frey men, as though he were calling a dog to heel. Edmure looked up to see a black-haired Frey with a pinched nose who stood not far from them higher up on the bank.  
  
Sallei Frey took a short curtsey before leaving Edmure.  
  
“Stop crying wife—I said we’d name the child for your blasted father or sister already,” grumbled the black-haired Frey as he took hold of his wife’s arm and forced her back towards the entrance to the Twins and Edmure to his horse for the ride south to Harrenhal. On the journey south he found Olyvar a most efficacious squire, the boy eagerly running to prepare and fetch at the mere mention of the word. It was almost tempting to turn it into a game just to see Olyvar hurry about, the memory of Perwyn’s sad face as he spoke of Olyvar though, kept him from attempting it.  
  
They arrived at Harrenhal with much splendor to at long last celebrate something nice for a change, a wedding. At long last, and after some delay, Tristan was to marry Lady Shella. The entire household was there to greet their party. Lady Shella was decked out in yellow with black bats finely embroidered on her dress. Her hair was held up by a black lace hairnet also embroidered with bats. She had a regal bearing, with features a statue might be envious of. She greeted Edmure as her cousin, and then warmly accepted her betrothed and soon to be husband, Tristan—with whom she seemed rather fond of.  
  
Of the rest of the household, Edmure took a slight interest in a short boy of what looked to be six namedays or so. He had Lady Shella’s look—and clearly from the fine cloth and how proudly he wore the Whent colors he himself was a Whent, but he had a tanned complexion which he shared with another woman Edmure presumed to be the boy’s mother. For some strange reason that Edmure could not quite explain, the lady seemed quite familiar—as though he had met her before, but Edmure was also sure that the hadn’t. Yet there was something nagging him at the back of his mind, telling him that he was wrong.  
  
He presumed rightly for the violet-haired woman pulled the boy forward and boldy said, “I am Lady Andella Whent and this is my son. He shares a name with you I believe, Ser.”  
  
“I’m named after my uncle,” proclaimed the young bat proudly.  
  
“As am I,” added Edmure, only just realizing a moment later that they were named for the same uncle.  
  
“One day I’ll be a fine knight, just like my father was!” proclaimed the boy with such determination that only made his mother cluck in response.  
  
“When you are, I am sure House Tully will be glad to have your sword,” laughed Edmure.  
  
The wedding was held a few days later in Harrenhal’s overly large Sept which was a little over half filled with the amount of guests that had arrived from all over the Riverlands and even some from the Crownlands. Brynden Blackwood seemed rather pleased to see Lady Barbara present and spent most of the feast hidden away speaking with her. A merry feast full of music, laughter, and dance was held which lasted all the afternoon and well into the evening. Edmure decided to indulge Olyvar a bit by sliding more than enough ale to get the Frey squire passed out drunk. Edmure watched as his fellow knights and brothers in arms chose plenty of pretty girls to dance with, while Edmure abstained, his thoughts elsewhere as he allowed himself to think on Asha. She had run away from Riverrun, only to be found in the Westerlands and brought back. His father had said that she’d been trying to escape back to the Iron Islands.  
  
Some part of him though recalled how she had reveled in exploring every part of Riverrun—even finding that secret passageway he hadn’t known was there. Had she always been looking for some sort of escape?  
  
It was then that he was interrupted in his thoughts.  
  
“Is this then what a Westerosi wedding is like?” asked a voice of someone who’d sat next to him. Edmure looked up to see Obi Sand—well, Sandsnake, as upon his knighthood the bastard had taken the nickname his father’s children had been affectionately given as his own.  
  
“What are you doing here?” asked Edmure, rather shocked to see the young violet haired knight present.  
  
“Ser Tristan invited me,” explained Obi easily enough.  
  
Edmure was taken aback by this, but then chastised himself for not thinking of that before, “Oh… of course he would. And what did you think of the ceremony?”  
  
“You spend too much time repeating vows to each other. And why does everything have to be done seven times? It takes half the time to marry someone in Pentos as it does here,” assessed Obi, before he took a sip of wine and added with a sly smile, “Though you do celebrate it better. In Pentos, everyone simply exchanges gifts or gold and hurries you out the door.”  
  
When it came time for the bedding, Edmure along with Marq and all the rest of his uncle’s former squires led the way to disrobing Shella to her smallclothes, which Edmure took care they stopped there, for which his cousin looked grateful to him.  
  
After depositing the happy couple within the wedding chambers, Edmure and his fellow knights feeling rather sweaty from carrying Shella up in their arms all the way from the Great Hall to the wedding chamber, decided to cool off outside for a bit before returning to their awaiting ale inside the Great Hall. They crossed the courtyard and then entered the spacious godswood. They were still laughing about how flushed Tristan had been to see his bride delivered to him when Marq tripped.  
  
“Bloody hell…” grumbled Marq.  
  
“Didn’t see the root?” laughed Patrek.  
  
“It wasn’t a root,” spoke Lymond, who pointed to something darker than the shade of the tree which surrounded it. At first Edmure took it to be yet another tree root sticking out from a bush and that Lymond didn’t know what he was talking about, but then Liam approached the thing and lifted it up to instead show it was a limp arm, attached to someone in the bush. Immediately they all stopped laughing and curiosity getting the better of them, they pulled the arm and whoever it was attached to out from under the tree and into the moonlight. There Edmure saw it was a woman—Lady Andella—whose neck was slit open, and blood was staining the ground red.  
  
“She’s still warm…” said Liam, and Edmure felt his own blood run cold.


	81. Selyse

******SELYSE**  
  
It all began from an odd piece of folded parchment that she found on the floor of Brightwater Keep early one morning. It was folded into three parts with a lot of words written on each side separately before continuing onto another. But what struck her as quite odd was the manner which seemed to render each letter in exactly the same fashion. Upon simple examination of the folded parchment, she concluded that whoever’s hand this was, they must have excellent control to duplicate each and every letter exactly the same way each and every time. There were no A’s slightly bent this way or that, bigger or smaller than any other. Each letter was exactly the same, and each letter was spaced rather evenly between each other. After she had recovered her amazement at seeing the letters so perfectly transcribed she then began to put them together into evenly spaced words and sentences, and draw meaning from the folded parchment.  
  
 _I strongly disagree with those who would keep the secrets of the Seven Pointed Star locked away from the uneducated. Did Hugor of the Hill receive such a complex doctrine that it can only be understood by a small cabal of Septons? Why then would he have spread the faith beyond a select few if that were the case? Is the Faith only strong in proportion to how men are ignorant of its true teachings? The world has its secrets and mysteries, but the guiding lantern of the Crone encourages us to shine the light of knowledge through the darkness of ignorance to light a path to greater wisdom and enlightenment. The Seven Pointed Star is like such a lantern and I want the lowliest women to read the Mother’s book and be more giving of her mercy. I would like to hear a farmer sing a Smith’s song as he plows. And the traveler to make his journey better through sharing stories that can only be found in the Seven Pointed Star._  
  
Intrigued, but not wishing to read more in a corridor, Selyse decided to retire to read the rest of it.  
  
She hurried up towards the chambers her uncle Alester had given her lodging in after her father’s death. She remembered fondly the small keep her father had had before his death, and missed it. Her mother had died giving birth to Erren--she barely recalled her mother, but her father... oh did she think of him fondly. Her father had once told her that their keep was so old that it was likely the original keep Florys the Fox had had before her eldest son built Brightwater Keep. She remembered the memory of him holding on to her as she sat at the front of his horse looking down upon their keep from a higher hill they had rode up to get a good view of. She felt her skin tingle with goosebumps like it had that day as the wind on the hill swirled about them, blowing her hair into his face, and him making a rather large show of brushing it from his view.  
  
She had wanted to stay at that keep for forever, but when her father had fallen from his horse, her uncle had sent for her and her two brothers and that had been the end of it. She then had been told by her septa that she could not expect to return to the keep ever, but to instead think of the duties of a wife and mother. And truth be told, she had taken up the dream rather happily.  
  
She had truly hoped to marry and had looked forward to leaving Brightwater Keep and the sadness it brought her--a few days after her arrival she'd been shut up in her chambers by her aunt Melara until 'she could learn to control her crying and outbursts'. To be a lady of her own keep and have a husband that would cherish her--not see her as yet another mouth to feed or consider, that had been her thoughts at one time. But at seven and twenty namedays, she knew she was far too much an old maid to still be considered of marriageable age. Why, even cousin Delena was married. And so her dreams of being lady of her own keep and having a husband who could love her was put aside. She expected instead to perhaps serve as the future maiden aunt and tutor of her brother Imry’s children—or if she were unlucky enough her cousin Alekyne’s children when he at long last married and settled down—something his father was always pestering him to do, but Alekyne avoided while going on a hunt with a huntsman he was oddly close to.   
  
She entered her chambers to find the afternoon sun no longer giving much light to the main room. Her chambers faced due east and were hard to manage in the morning without going blind, and nearly impossible to see in the evening without a candle. Knowing she did not want to strain her eyes any further than she already had reading books upon books in her self-made appointment as future tutor to her nieces and cousins, she grabbed a small stick from the fireplace, placed it in the still glowing coals in the brazier to light it. As Selyse then lit a candle in her somewhat dark room she cozied herself upon her chair and picked out another section of the folded parchment to read.  
  
 _Further I was amazed when I took up the ‘Wanderings of the Andals’ and read how our forefathers would gather everything together that they had amongst themselves and divide it out equally amongst themselves. Hearing of such practices—something long forgotten by contamination with First Men hierarchal divisions—makes passages in the Seven Pointed Star like ‘That which is made by the Smith’s hands enriches us all,' seem illuminated with a New Light._   
  
She had to put the parchment down after that, for just a moment to think.  
  
 _Is that what the Seven Pointed Star truly says?_  
  
The concept made Selyse uncomfortable to say the least. The idea of dividing everything so that none could go without need appealed to her greatly. The thought of starving children, whether they be smallfolk or noble disturbed her—but taking it further than that?  
  
 _But he says he read it in the Wanderings of the Andals. Not the Seven Pointed Star, but it is about my ancestors… well some of my ancestors._  
  
Still troubled by that notion she flipped to another section which concluded the final topic on the folded parchment.  
  
 _Hugor of the Hill met and was blessed by the One who is Seven himself, as were his sons. Why do we therefore believe ourselves unable to likewise still communicate with the One who is Seven? Hugor was not a Septon—let alone a High Septon, but an Andal man just like any of us. If the One who is Seven could so communicate with them, and lead them on to such glory as the invasion of Westeros, why not now? After all, we would not have the Seven Pointed Star without the One who is Seven guiding us in its writing, in the first place. What’s to say that the One who is Seven cannot guide us all in its interpretation?_  
  
This was the most amazing notion of all. Hugor of the Hill had met the Seven incarnate—that had always been the insistence of the Septons. That his sons had as well, she did not know if that were true, but it seemed likely. But to say that the Seven could speak still to people today—anyone at that… why that… that…  
  
She didn’t know quite what to think to be honest. But her uncle might. He had always thought on such matters.  
  
She came upon his door slightly ajar with loud voices inside. Stopping not far from the door, Selyse found herself listening despite knowing that it would be wrong to eavesdrop.  
  
Her uncle Alester’s voice was the clearest “What’s this notion about the division of wealth?!”  
  
A man’s voice which she did not recognize spoke first, stating, “I can pull out the references to it in scripture—truly the entire Seven Pointed Star is written with the assumption built into it that the share of wealth should be divided equally amongst all Andals.”  
  
“So you’re saying that House Florent should demand the gold which we’ve given you to build this new word press and should instead have divided it up amongst out bannermen and smallfolk? Perhaps you should hand over what remaining gold you have—there still might be time to please the One who is Seven,” grumbled her uncle with a clear distaste.  
  
“It’s likely that in his excitement over sneaking the text from the Citadel that my brother might have taken a looser interpretation of the text than is meant,” offered a second voice that Selyse did not recognize.  
  
“I mean what I wrote, Lothar!” insisted the first voice.  
  
The second voice then pleaded, “Lord Alester, Bernar and I need to speak in private, would—”   
  
Her uncle Alester interrupted with, “You may say whatever you want to each other here, I must find my brother to discuss certain matters anyway. When I return, I want this subject concerning the sharing of wealth concluded.”  
  
Selyse then hid herself in a nook behind a statue that was purported to be of Florys the Fox, the legendary ancestress of her house while her uncle departed from his solar in a perturbed manner. When she was sure he was gone, she crept back out from behind the statue and drew a tiny bit closer to the door to listen further. Were these the men who’d written the parchment she’d picked up earlier?  
  
She hoped that she hadn’t miss much of their continued conversation.  
  
The second voice retorted, “Recall _Maester_ Bernar, that it is the generosity of noble houses like House Florent and House Hightower that we aren’t being dragged before the High Septon!”  
  
“So you’d censor the true intentions of the One who is Seven?!” exclaimed the first voice.  
  
The second voice retorted, “Never censor, just accept that some realities must remain. Simply say that Hugor took a share befitting his station as patriarch—it’s believable enough, and mention in there that a Lord is like a Father to his people somehow.”  
  
The first voice rebounded, “But that’s not what Hugor wanted! I have the very quote, he said he didn’t want there to be any difference between any of his sons—!”   
  
“The Andals no longer wander, Bernar. They settled and took upon themselves the lifestyle of the First Men or whatever else you want to call it! To try and resurrect the _primitive_ Faith is to move backwards—not forwards. The sooner you accept that the more Seven Pointed Stars we can print and give out.”  
  
The first voice lamented, “What good are more Seven Pointed Stars if no one can read them properly?”  
  
“I can destroy you Bernar. One word from me and Lord Alester would end guest rite and send a raven to the Starry Sept. I don’t want to do that, but if I have to I would.”  
  
There was a long silence that had Selyse draw close to the door—fearful that she might miss the next thing that either Lothar or Maester Bernar might say next.  
  
With a great sigh she heard the first voice concede, “I can find another topic to discuss in the pamphlet.”  
  
The next instant Selyse heard footsteps behind her and fearful she stood only to find her eyes locked with those of her silver-bearded uncle Alester and uncle Colin who still had his dark brown hair without a single streak of silver through it.  
  
“Selyse, what are you doing?!” exclaimed her Uncle Colin.  
  
“I—!” began Selyse.  
  
“How long have you been at my door?” questioned her Uncle Alester.  
  
“I—I wasn’t at your door for too long...” started Selyse, it wasn’t too terrible a lie. She hadn’t been at the door for much of it at all.  
  
“Her lip is quivering,” noted her Uncle Colin.   
  
“Your uncle’s right. You’re lying. Return to your chambers and remain there until I send for you,” commanded her silver-bearded uncle with a stern glance of his reddish-brown eyes.  
  
Knowing it fruitless to argue, she returned to her chambers with as much dignity as she could recover while berating herself for the tiny lie. She was left to ponder in her chambers without being called for the evening meal. A meager provision had been brought to her chambers instead. She was not called down to break her fast in the morning either, nor any other meal for the rest of the day or the day after that, leaving her to ponder and berate herself for her infraction. Sometimes she wanted to tear up the parchment for what it had led her to do—other times she held the thing close for the ideas it contained. In her enforce seclusion it was her only source of new ideas. On the evening of the third day she was surprised to find instead of the servant, her Uncle Alester at her door.   
  
“I trust you have had time to consider the lie you told me?” asked her Uncle sternly without any preamble.  
  
Selyse conceded willingly, “Aye, Uncle, it was quite wrong of me. I, should have been more open at the first…”  
  
“It is good that you can see how wrong you were, niece. That will be a helpful trait when you leave Brightwater Keep.”  
  
“I am to marry?!” exclaimed Selyse, hardly believing what she was hearing.  
  
And she was right not to believe that interpretation, for no sooner had she said as much did her Uncle Alester reply with, “No. You are to journey to Oldtown and join the chapter of Silent Sisters at the Starry Sept.”  
  
Images of women shrouded so that only their eyes could be seen appeared before her. Not a life of education and little nieces or cousins to teach, but one of bones and blood—a life far from the one she had imagined for herself with no eligible match made for her. She cried out in shock, “The Silent Sisters?! But uncle—”  
  
He did not let her continue, interjecting, “I have already made arrangements with the Holy Mother of Setpas there and she was kind enough to respond saying they would be honored to have such a sister of such prestigious blood join them.”  
  
“But I never—” she began.  
  
Her uncle cut her off with his hardened glance and said quite simply, “I would practice silence Selyse, for you will be under a vow of it for a very long time.”  
  
And with that he took his leave. Selyse had never felt so much like crying since she had come to Brightwater Keep.


	82. Rhaella

**RHAELLA**  
  
The High Septon Bones had gone too far. There was no way she could deny it, no justification she could offer for his decision for the man had clearly lost all reason if he thought to question the mother of the future Queen. Rhaella was faithful, but even she considered the Faith to be a tool of the monarchy, to ensure stability and unity amongst an otherwise divided continent. If the High Septon had lost sight of this and chose to attack the very family it was a tool of—why then it was an affront to all stability and order he claimed to help bring to the realm. Clearly she and the rest of the faithful had let a _demon_ ascend to the holiest office—a demon which must be thrown down before he cast them all into the Seven Hells.  
  
What was worse was how Bonifer had simply assisted the man. He had simply accepted the man’s authority on the order without question—even if he did seem to harbor doubts as she suspected. He had taken her gooddaughter away in the very sight of Rhaella’s granddaughter and nearly the entire assembled family, then had ignored the protests of the Hand of the King—the King’s own voice when he was not present in the city—all for the word of a demon wearing the crystal crown. If the High Demon could be seen to get away with this act--it would set a dangerous precedent and likely lead to the battle with Maegor repeated once again for Rhaenys or more likely, Rhaenys' child.  
  
The family could not stand such a challenge to royal authority, nor she an attack on her gooddaughter—whatever her faults, she was still family, a dragon in name that needed protecting as much as Rhaenys—if not more so due to her frailty. These thoughts tilted about Rhaella’s head as she and her servants brought the children back to her chambers. She wanted all her babes in one place tonight and well guarded—less the demon think of taking them as well. She thought to do the same with Rhaenys, but Hoster had insisted upon the honor himself. The girl, so startled from the throw of the manhandling guard, had clung to the Riverlord and hadn’t let go even when he’d set her down. Once her children were settled she’d go immediately to the Sept of Baelor and let the demon know that there still was one dragon left able to breathe fire for her kith and kin.  
  
Aelinor clutched her right hand as tightly as a child of nearly six namedays could. Leaning against her shoulder was a now sleepy little Baelor, who was exhausted from all the exertion of the evening, and rested his silver-blond hair in the nook of Rhaella’s neck. Her son was sucking on his thumb, allowing a little drool to escape his mouth and wet her shoulder. It was a most irritating habit he had at times ever since she’d weaned him from her teat. Rhaella was determined to break him of it. Now though wasn’t the time to scold him, and if the habit kept him quiet for the nonce, then she could handle having a drool stain upon her shoulder. Baelor’s thumb was certainly of more help in this moment than Naerys’ questions.  
  
Naerys was not comforted by touch. She instead was rather finicky about who she let touch her in general, only allowing certain people at certain times. Unlike Baelor or even Aelinor, her girl of silver-blond hair and warm eyes of brown did not cling to Rhaella, but instead was fastidious in keeping as much distance from others as possible. Naerys was not opposed to Rhaella's touching her, but only as long as she kept them short and didn’t surprise her with a sudden hug or appearance of her hand from nowhere. On some days the vehement insistence of her daughter to have her own space be respected reminded Rhaella of Aerys and how he’d sometimes think he was entirely made of glass and that if anyone touched him he might shatter into a million pieces. As Aerys' wife and favorite chewing bone, she had looked forward to those days, for they meant he’d keep himself from her bed chambers, but to see Naerys acting in even a manner that vaguely recalled Aerys had bothered Rhaella.  
  
 _There’s not a drop of Aerys in Naerys…_  
  
She comforted herself on this thought sometimes, before remembering that Naerys had just as much of Aerys’ blood as Rhaella had. It was one of those moments when she cursed her parents for returning to traditional Targaryen marriage practices.  
  
As they hurried down the corridors to her chambers, Rhaella had to answer her daughter’s frequent questions, for it was in knowing the truth that her daughter found more comfort in than a hug or a kiss. Behind them trotted Lady Falyse Stokeworth, Lady Tanda’s eldest daughter who had recently replaced Meryna as one of Rhaella’s ladies in waiting upon Meryna’s marriage to Lord Manning. Lady Tanda had little time for her eldest daughter, as she was now displaced in succession by a very late in life blessing of a son named Alyn. Nearly two decades worth of miscarriages, stillborn infants, and infant deaths had left her and Lord Manly hopeless and nearly estranged—he took a post with the Gold Cloaks precisely after the death of one specific child. It reminded Rhaella far too much of her own difficulties. For that Rhaella had taken Lady Falyse as a replacement for Meryna, and now sighed regretting her overly sympathetic heart. Rhaella hoped to be rid of the painted-face, fish-lipped, vain, forgetful, and haughty Falyse by the end of the year with they way she was giving looks to a few knights. With just a word from her the girl would be married and out of her services for good.  
  
“But why did father take Elia like that?” queried her silver-haired daughter.  
  
Rhaella sighed as they turned a corner, “Because the High Septon wished to speak with her, sweetling.”  
  
“But… but the High Septon only requests to speak with bad folk, and Elia isn’t bad,” countered her daughter with an audible quiver to her voice.  
  
She rebuffed with, “Not always, Naerys… sometimes the High Septon speaks with good folk too. He speaks with your father often.”  
  
 _Too often, now that I think on it…_  
  
“Aye, but then why would Elia fight going?” inquired Naerys as she nearly ran to keep up.  
  
Naerys could be a curious child when she wanted to be, and all the intricate little details of life fascinated her, while Aelinor preferred far more broad strokes.  
  
“What father did was wrong!” proclaimed Aelinor as she squeezed Rhaella’s hand more firmly and darted her head around Rhaella’s skirts to glare at her twin sister. Baelor fussed at Aelinor’s yell.  
  
“Aelinor! Not so loud! You’re disturbing your brother,” scolded Rhaella.  
  
“But it was! He dragged her—” began Aelinor, but she was interrupted by Naerys.  
  
“Father _rolled_ her. He didn’t drag her at all.”  
  
“He took her when she didn’t want to go all the same,” huffed Aelinor.  
  
“Now is not the time to argue, sweetlings,” chided Rhaella as Baelor began to squirm in her grasp.  
  
 _Just a bit more to the chambers…_  
  
“Listen to your mother, girls,” echoed the Lady Falyse weakly.  
  
“The High Septon only wants to speak to Elia nicely, like he does to all good folk,” retorted Naerys, ignoring Lady Falyse.  
  
“Then why did father _roll_ her away like a bad folk then?” persisted Aelinor stubbornly.  
  
And in the next instant Rhaella heard screams from Naerys, that were soon joined by a fussy and upset Baelor. Without having to look, Rhaella knew Lady Falyse had made the mistake of touching Naerys, mayhaps in some misguided attempt to calm her. Thankfully they arrived at her chambers at that point. A quick glance confirmed her assumption and the moment the guards opened the doors to her chambers, Naerys ran in as fast as she could to escape Lady Falyse, who stood perfectly still and in shock.  
  
“I warned you not to touch my daughter,” growled Rhaella as she felt Aelinor leave her side to chase after her sister—most likely to continue arguing and to comfort her sister both at once. Aelinor was the only person Rhaella found that Naerys allowed her to touch her without any reservation.  
  
Lady Falyse's painted blue lips opened and closed like a fish's might. When she finally had collected her wits to say something, she asked, "Your grace, please give my apologies to little Naerys... I did not mean  
—if I could be of any help—"  
  
She interrupted her with, "It is done, girl."  
  
"Your grace, what will you do about the Princess?" she then asked.  
  
"What I must, Falyse. You may go."  
  
Baelor was become far too difficult to hold with just one arm, so she scooted him up and wrapped her other arm about him.  
  
 _Be gone already. I tire of seeing your fish-shaped mouth._  
  
"I—I will contact my father, your grace. Mayhap he could suggest something?" queried Falyse.  
  
 _Lord Manly is lord commander of the Goldcloaks... mayhaps Falyse has her uses after all._  
  
"Aye, that would be good, Falyse—but make no mention of the situation concerning the Princess to anyone else beyond him. Speak to him and _only_ him about it. And tell him that I shall meet him at the front gate to the palace in two hours time. Do you have all that, child?" asked Rhaella.  
  
Falyse nodded before curtsying to take her leave and scurrying off to do as Rhaella bid, leaving Rhaella and her children to enter her chambers.  
  
A quick look about the main chamber revealed that the stern Septa Desminisa—her goodsister through marriage to Bonifer—was nowhere to be seen. She turned to one of her few dragonseed guards from Dragonstone, a lanky but quite comely youth named Laerys, and asked that the Septa be summoned immediately. Baelor was now becoming unmanageable as he squirmed within her grasps.  
  
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” he called out as he pounded his little fists against Rhaella’s shoulder. No doubt yelling at his two sisters to cease arguing, which he found rather distasteful in general. They didn’t do much other than annoy Rhaella for the nonce, but she still scolded him as she took him into the nursery, knowing that what her darling little Baelor needed was a good night’s rest. As she approached his own tiny little bed, decked out in the hasty colors of purple and white, he began to calm down, or at least begin to succumb to his own exhaustion once more.  
  
He pleaded as she slowly laid him down upon his little bed, “Momma, make them stop… please momma…”  
  
“Hush sweetling… your sisters are just a little upset,” assured Rhaella.  
  
Her son looked at her oddly, as though that hadn’t been what he’d been referring to at all, and then said as she tucked him under his furs, “No, momma, you have to stop them now… before they kill...”  
  
“Kill?!” she interjected, unaware that he even understood the concept.  
  
He continued as though he faded in an out of the twilight of exhaustion, saying “Cousins are family… they need to work together and love each other… like you always say... stop them momma, before it’s too late.”  
  
“Your Hasty cousins Baelor are all the way down at Cinque Port in the Stormlands,” retorted Rhaella, as she thought of Bonifer’s nephews. Well the one was likely away at war, but Robert as castellan of Cinque Port was likely still on the estate with Corre's five daughters and only son. Bastian and Luceon had died in the Rebellion, with Bastian's wife having gone back to her Estermont family, and last she'd heard gone to comfort her Baratheon cousins with the onset of war. That only left Bonifer's only niece, Olyvia, who was Lady Musgood with two healthy children. The only other Hasty cousins Baelor had were the Selmys, as Bonifer's sister Elaena was Lady Hasty.  
  
Baelor shook his head weakly and said, “Not Hasty cousins, dragon cousins…”  
  
She was quick to correct this, hoping no unwelcome ears heard him, “You’re a Hasty, sweetling, not a dragon.”  
  
“Nuh uh… I’m an ama—thyst dragon… not green, nor black, nor red… but ama—thyst…” His mispronunciation might have been adorable if it weren't accompanied with him thinking of himself as a dragon.  
  
“Baelor—”  
  
But her tiny son had already closed his eyes and his young shallow breaths had calmed into a soothing rhythm.  
  
His words troubled Rhaella greatly. Baelor was only a toddler, and yet he had spoken of the past factions within her family with such… clarity. There could be no conceviable way he had learned of them all at this point. In a few years, aye. But at this age? There was only one explanation left. Rhaella knew that sometimes the Seven spoke through the mouth of babes, and if that were so, then Baelor truly was meant to don the Crystal crown one day! But until then she would have to guard the position from demons and adders who’d destroy the Faith if they could, most especially the demon who wore the crown at present.  
  
With a new sense of urgency, Rhaella knew now what the Seven asked of her through Baelor—to restore faith in the Faith by bringing down the demon Bones… and they had told her to trust her dragon cousins.  
  
But she had no dragon cousins left. She and Rhaenys were the last of the Targaryens beyond the claim made by the absent Baratheons through her aunt. And then Rhaella recalled an even more distant part of the family tree and knew now exactly who it was the Seven wished for her to work with to bring down the demon—the man who would be most affected by Elia’s seizure anyway: Elia’s brother and Rhaella’s distant cousin, Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell. She felt herself cringe slightly at the thought of working with a man who defiled the virginity of Septas. But if the Seven willed it, she could do no more than listen, and she would have to hurry if she did not wish to miss him before he learned of what had occurred and departed to face the demon without her.  
  
When she exited the nursery she found Aelinor and Naerys having curled up together in a hug of entangled limbs upon the lounge. They seemed at ease in such a position and Rhaella took it as a sign that she was on the correct path from the Seven. A greater sign was the arrival of her goodsister and Septa, Desminisa who apologized for her absence, stating that she hadn’t expected Rhaella’s return until an hour or so later.  
  
Rhaella was in no hurry to explain herself to Desminisa, and so she simply said, “The children grew quite tired, and so I brought them to my chambers to sleep. You’ll keep watch over them?”  
  
“Of course, goodsister,” assured Desminisa with a slight curtsy before approaching the lounge, and leaving Rhaella to don a cloak and exit the chambers. She took Laerys and her other dragonseed guard Daeryk, believing them to be further cousins the Seven wished her to trust in her holy mission.  
  
As fast as her skirts could allow her, Rhaella twisted through the corridors of the Red Keep, prompting her two guards to nearly jog in their armor to keep up with her. She had no time to waste and so took as many short cuts and secret passages as she could to arrive at the door to the chambers of Prince Oberyn, Lord Intelligence. She arrived there to find a blond boy dressed in Martell squire’s livery banging upon the door. The boy looked to be about four and ten, or mayhap he was older and had yet to have grown further. Upon closer examination, Rhaella could see the boy had the Arryn look and remembered such a boy being Prince Oberyn’s eldest bastard son’s playmate… a boy that went by the name of Deryn or so she believed. A low-born boy, if she recalled rightly.  
  
“My Prince, you must open the door and hear me!” pleaded the boy with a crack in his voice.  
  
All that could be heard in response was a scream of ecstasy from the other side of the door.  
  
Rhaella pursed her lips. Of course the man would be coming into someone’s castle when his sister was in danger. What else did the man do besides beget bastards and collect them? In that moment Rhaella almost turned to walk away until she recalled her granddaughter’s tear-stained face, and she knew that the Seven had willed that no other man could help her. Sighing and believing the ensuing ordeal to be a test of herself, she approached Prince Oberyn’s squire.  
  
 _Seven help me endure…_  
  
“Squire, has the Prince heard the news concerning his sister?” Rhaella charged the boy without introduction.  
  
The squire was startled for a second before turning around, seeing her and then bowing quite low. He then answered her question while remaining in his bow, “No, your grace… I was just trying to tell him…”  
  
“Out of the way, then!” insisted Rhaella, and as she approached the door she heard what sounded liked the rattling of a bed accompanied by several moans from more than one man and more than one woman. The sound made Rhaella recall one evening when Aerys had suggested they experiment by bringing another woman into their bed. She shuddered at how he’d reacted when she’d told him she’d take moontea on every subsequent pregnancy if he even dared to try it. The memory did not end so happily after that, and so she pushed it to one side to try and keep her focus  
  
“Your grace, I don’t believe the Prince is decent enough to receive you properly,” said Laerys protectively.  
  
“I’ve endured worse perverts than this Dornish Prince…” retorted Rhaella.  
  
 _I married my brother…_  
  
She then took it upon herself to knock upon the door and call forth, “Cousin Oberyn, let me in!”  
  
She only had to repeat herself once after that. One orgasmic collective moan later she heard a fumbling of footsteps followed by the opening of the door by a completely naked Prince Oberyn—likely done with the intent to startle her. Rhaella kept her eyes firmly upon the face of her distant cousin—trying to see the distant dragon blood within him, though the brief glimpse of his body that she had caught when he’d opened the door had proved him to be quite a beautiful example of a man, glistening with sweat and panting ever so slightly.  
  
“Why, _cousin_ Rhaella, we were just celebrating the good news… Ellaria, my paramour, is with child again, and she can become insatiable when she’s with child.”  
  
“My prince, have you no dec—” protested Laerys  
  
She had no time for games, and so she announced directly to Oberyn, cutting Laerys off, “The High Septon has taken Elia.”  
  
At this news Oberyn’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly before he replied, “You jape.”  
  
“Do you know me to jape about my daughter’s safety?” replied Rhaella.  
  
“ _Good_ daughter,” corrected Oberyn a tad testily.  
  
Rhaella huffed, “Elia is as much my daughter as Aelinor and Naerys are, even if she didn’t come from my womb, and do I need to remind you that the High Septon has taken her?”  
  
Truly he was taking the news of Elia’s abduction rather well.  
  
“I would have thought that would be considered a good thing by you? What since she’s joined the faction? Now she can be corrected and brought back into the true light of the Faith,” mocked Oberyn.  
  
This was punishment… punishment from the Seven for following a demon so blindly. It was punishment, but also a test. So she gritted herself and reminded herself that she deserved that comment, though she was a little worried that the part of her which assured that sounded a bit like Aerys did whenever he beat or scratched her.  
  
 _You deserved that…_  
  
She took a deep breath and said evenly, “Allow me to enter, cousin, so I may discuss the situation openly with you. The full details are not for the ears of the corridor.”  
  
“Why if you wished to join us _cousin_ , no need for the ruse,” teased Oberyn as he pushed the door further open so that she could enter. She had only Laerys enter the room with her, not for her protection, but because she thought he’d make a scene if she didn’t.  
  
As she passed her Dornish cousin, she heard him call to the squire in the corridor, “Go and fetch her grace a cordial. She might have need it after a round.”  
  
Rhaella placed a hand upon Laerys to calm him at that moment. After entering the main chamber her Dornish cousin then proceeded further into his bedchamber, Rhaella stayed out of that room decidedly. A few moments later he returned having donned a robe.  
  
"Cousin, the High Septon sent men into the Red Keep and had her forcibly taken not an hour ago.  
  
"Did he?" questioned Oberyn with a smirk. He quite obviously did not believe her.  
  
She was about to press her argument further of the need to depart when from out of the bedchamber came his paramour who left the front of her robe open, revealing the very slight bulge to her stomach along with stretch marks that adorned it, as she tussled her hair. Upon finishing doing so, Ellaria recognized her guest and covered herself up and curtsied. Upon rising from the curtsy, the Dornish bastard said, “Why your grace, I had no idea that you approved of such pleasures… I would have thought them, _sinful_ in your eyes?”  
  
It was a blatant attempt to bait her, and yet a further test of her from the Seven. She felt a tingle at her face and heard once again in her ears Aerys’ voice.  
  
 _You deserved that too, you slut…_  
  
She did her best to hold back from responding to the bait, only adding a quiet, “hmmph” in an attempt to stifle the words which wanted to come from her mouth.  
  
It was then a whore and her bawd who stumbled in from the bedchamber. They were likewise lackadaisically dressed, but seemed unaware of the situation due to their lack of deference.  
  
“Oo… this one’s a bit icy! But I like her friend…” commented the whore as she gave Laerys a full view of her well formed breasts. Laerys averted his eyes.  
  
"Cousin, some privacy, please!" insisted Rhaella.  
  
“Why the interest in this here statue? Was it so hot in there you needed to cool off?” cracked the bawd as he leaned over and began to nibble at Ellaria’s neck. Ellaria waved him aside, and the bawd pouted but obeyed the command.  
  
“You will address the Queen Dowager as her grace or hold your tongue,” retorted Laerys with a noted blush.  
  
“A Queen, eh?” commented the bawd who then turned to Oberyn and said, “Never buggered a Queen before. Is she anything like the real one?”  
  
Oberyn only grinned wickedly as he replied, “She is the real one.”  
  
The bawd and the whore laughed until they realized neither Oberyn nor Ellaria were as well, at which point thee was a scramble of cloth to cover their bodies and suddenly pale faces. They both bowed quite poorly before Rhaella asked for them to leave the room.  
  
By the point that they had, Rhaella had lost her patience and approached the calm Oberyn nearly infuriated.  
  
Rhaella insisted, “Cousin, I tire of your games and insults. You must come with me to the Sept of Baelor—!”  
  
He eyed Ellaria before turning to Rhaella to say quite firmly, “I refuse. I am not being shuttled off into a trap you, your husband, and that bony fool have laid for me.”  
  
“Trap?!” she exclaimed with much shock.  
  
He rejoined “Aye, trap! The High Septon would _never_ dare touch Elia and you most certainly would never come to me as you are to act against his “boniness”. I supposed I should be glad that you never took an interest in hunting, for I would say that it is never wise to warn your prey of the snare you lay down.”  
  
“My prince—” began Laerys.  
  
“Quiet guard, you have already spoken out of turn to me once too often this evening,” spat Oberyn with hard venomous eyes. Eyes that held an intensity all too recognizable to Rhaella. The same eyes that had glared at her the night Viserys and Aegon had been murdered. It would be up to her alone.  
  
She took a deep breath to control her emotions and said, “Would you rather that I drag Rhaenys, Aelinor and Naerys here to recount through their tears how my husband burst into our dinner with Lord Tully and forcibly took her from the room?!”  
  
This affected Oberyn, as his angry eyes now only narrowed as he responded with a certain disgust, “Your grace, I believed you to be better than this. I believed you to be a fanatic, aye, but surely one who had some sense of dignity and honor left. To use your children in your vile scheme, is unpardonable.”  
  
 _They’ll never believe you, Rhaella…_  
  
She willed the voice of Aerys away. She couldn’t afford to linger any longer. If the Red Viper could not be reasoned with he surely would not be convinced by any hysterics on her account. She had failed this test, but she could not let it get to her.  
  
“It seems I must plead my own case to the High demon then,”  
  
“Careful, _cousin_ , you don’t want the High _Septon_ to hear your sedition… he’s imprisoned women for less,” tutted Oberyn mockingly as she strode for the door.  
  
“Aye, women like your sister,” she shot back before leaving.  
  
As she exited she nearly ran into Prince Oberyn’s squire who’d returned with a glass of cordial that he dropped in his surprise. She strode out into the corridors and fastened her cloak tight about her.  
  
“What now, your grace?” asked Daeryk.  
  
“We depart for the front gate to meet with Lord Manly, and then Visenya’s Hill,” snapped Rhaella.  
  
 _You’ll never make it on time…_  
  
 _Be gone Aerys!_  
  
 _She’s as good as dead by now… you’ve likely killed her with your dillydallying…_  
  
 _Like you would have cared…_  
  
 _Talking back to me now, Rhaella? That’s never a good sign… slut!_  
  
It was then she heard his laughter—only it wasn’t just inside of her head but echoing amongst the corridors as she walked.  
  
 _Gods no…not now… Seven please, banish this demon!_  
  
Whenever she heard his voice as though it were actually there she knew she was due for a fit. They came less frequently—she had nearly thought herself over them. Bonifer usually helped her, holding her and calming her, assuring her that he was dead, truly good and dead. But sometimes he would just appear and refuse to leave.  
  
 _You’ll never be rid of me Rhaella! Never!_  
  
As was always accustomed with these fits her head began to hurt, the torches began to grow brighter and all sound and noise was painful to endure. And then she saw him there in the shadows… Aerys burnt black to a crisp—except for his silver-blond hair—with a fury of green flame about him. He looked like a proper demon from the Seven Hells, like he had always truly been.  
  
 _Pray to all the Seven if you like, it’ll do you no good, for I am your punishment for your sinful ways, Rhaella! For your first lust!_  
  
“Be gone! Be gone!” she shouted as she clutched her head with her right hand and braced herself against the wall with the other.  
  
“Your grace!” called out Daeryk and Laerys with much confusion.  
  
 _You will never wash away that sin Rhaella… your sin against me!_  
  
He struck her then, as he always did when he came to her bed. Just like the accusations he had shouted at her when he was alive, these still hurt.  
  
 _You deserve it, whore!_  
  
She felt his hand grab her wrist and felt the fire burn her. She clenched her eyes closed in agony. She tried to pull away but his charred hand wouldn’t budge.  
  
“No… no! Get off of me! Get off of me!” she pleaded, breaking down into tears from the pain of being touched.  
  
“Your grace! Your grace!” called out a voice which seemed to break through to her as though it had been prior obscured by a cloud. She opened her eyes to see Prince Oberyn, still dressed in only his robe, and holding her by the wrist. Somehow she had come into a sitting position by the foot of a corridor wall.  
  
“Prince Oberyn…” she breathed, hardly believing he was there.  
  
He looked at her with tremendous sympathy in his eyes, a complete change from the man whom she’d departed from his chambers. She then realized he knew. He knew the truth!  
  
“I came as soon as I heard from my squire to beg my pardon for my many offenses… I could hardly imagine…” the man looked more like a boy at this moment, a boy overwrought with emotion that he was unable to fully express, at once angry, confused, and distraught.  
  
She asked with disbelief that he was truly there in front of her, “You believe me then… about Elia?”  
  
His eyes narrowed with a rage unlike the anger she’d witnessed in him earlier. This one seemed to burn hot like she’d seen on a few occasions with her grandfather when he found the lords giving him trouble yet again with his reforms. Immediately she knew that the dragonblood within her distant cousin had been awoken, and his firm affirmation only confirmed it, “Aye. I believe you.”  
  
She exclaimed, “Then we must hurry to the Sept!”  
  
Here Oberyn seemed to eye Laerys and Daeryk, “I will go, but considering the state I found you in, your grace—”  
  
“My fits come and go, but it is gone now. And I must go! For Elia’s sake!” insisted Rhaella, knowing that her presence somehow was necessary.  
  
Likely with some form of guilty conscious, Oberyn nodded and said “Of course, your grace.”  
  
She awaited him outside of his chambers and was soon joined by Hoster with a decent guard of his own. The Lord Hand informed her that Rhaenys was in her own chambers. He asked if Oberyn knew of what had occurred and Rhaella confirmed that he did and that they were going to the Sept of Baelor after meeting with Lord Commander Manly. When Oberyn exited not long thereafter, his squire Deryn trailing after him with his spear, Rhaella was amazed to see that in the short amount of time he’d managed to slip into armor with a dagger attached to his side. Together with Hoster and Oberyn, Rhaella set out for the front gate. They arrived before Lord Commander Manly, but when he did appear with a small cabal of Gold Cloaks, Rhaella felt far safer having more than doubled their guard now as they began for Visenya’s Hill.  
  
Lord Manly was a man about Hoster's age, though he'd hadn't aged as well as the well chiseled wrinkles and mostly grey hair revealed, and he looked a tad older still, as though he were a peer of Rhaella's father.  
  
They took horses to make up for lost time, with Oberyn stopping once they came to the long abandoned street which led straight up the hill and to the steps of the Sept. Along the street were the bodies of a few heretics—or supposed heretics, Rhaella supposed she needed to think of them now. Victims of the High Demon now. Oberyn specifically stopped by the body of a boy, who looked no older than Rhaenys. Curiously he reached up and peered into the mouth of the child.  
  
“What is it?” questioned Rhaella.  
  
“I wanted to see if the child has his tongue cut out…” commented Oberyn as he rejoined them.  
  
“Does the High Septon do such barbarities to _children_?!” exclaimed Hoster, as though unaware of such atrocity. To be fair, Rhaella had never once given the bodies that appeared along this street a second thought before, riding by them without much concern. Now she sorely regretted her arrogance.  
  
“I’ve found a few children with their tongues cut out along this walkway every now and then, though I've never seen him actually order them to be killed or see any child have their tongue cut out," commented the grim Lord Commander Manly.  
  
"The High Septon denies such atrocities of course, but it seems the kind of thing he would do to children who spout heresies in his presence,” spat Oberyn darkly. He seemed especially distraught by the event.  
  
“And neither of you did anything about such acts?!” exclaimed Rhaella, her imagination now seeing Baelor's face on the one young child, even though she knew they likely look nothing alike if she paid any closer attention.  
  
“With your support and the King’s disinterest, the High Septon committed a lot of crimes, I would have never permitted,” fumed Oberyn, who then noticed another child with its tongue cut out, commenting, “He’s grown bolder… he never hung two of them up here, nor so young…"  
  
Lord Commander Manly replied non-plussed, "They're only smallfolk children--if not gutter rats from Fleabottom. They either end up hanged or losing a hand either way... they're all guilty of some crime or other eventually."  
  
They couldn’t arrive at the Sept of Baelor any faster. Rhaella forced herself to look at the face of each and every person who hung by ropes along the street. Most were Septas and Septons who’d refused to recant, but a few seemed to be smallfolk. With each tormented soul she passed, contorted into some strange inhumane position or other, some hanging in cages, while others by a noose, Rhaella grew increasingly furious both with the High Demon, but also herself. How could she have allowed this to occur? How could she have blinded herself with her Faith? Where had been her Mother’s mercy?  
  
Aerys of course was always there in moments like these.  
  
 _See what happens when I'm not around, Rhaella, you start getting ideas about yourself!_  
  
She shed a few tears of guilt as they arrived at the foot of the steps of the Sept. They climbed the many steps to the top, her knees aching from the activity. Standing guard at the top of the steps were a few men decked out in the surcoats of the Holy Hundred.  
  
 _More like Holy Thousand, these days…_  
  
“We come seeking an audience with his… holiness,” demanded Hoster, though he pronounced the honorific barely concealing his disdain.  
  
One of the men, whom Rhaella recognized as Ser Verryk, spoke, “His Holiness is in conference at the moment, but you may enter while we inform him of your arrival.” The knight gave a fleeting look to Oberyn before looking meaningfully at his companion.  
  
“Do that! And you best be quick about it!” snapped Rhaella, hoping to hurry things along.  
  
Ser Verryk led them inside the Sept and then disappeared into the shadows--though his footfalls could be heard echoing inside the Sept. The scents of incense and wax assaulting her nose as he did so. What little light there was came from the candles lit before the altars of each of the Seven and a few torches along the Wall, the purple light of the fading dusk adding little illumination through the stained glass of the Sept proper. In the dark the marble statues of the Seven seemed cold and imposing, dwarfing them all as if in eternal judgment of all who enter. It didn’t look like the Sept of Baelor... it looked more like what an abomination might turn such a holy building into with its very presence. It was quiet inside, save for the occasional whisper heard echoing amongst the vast marble chamber. The doors closed behind the last of the Gold Cloaks to enter with them. A moment later Oberyn was hurrying down the stairs of the Sept to the central worship area, and in the next instant Rhaella saw why, for there alone and empty sat Elia’s wheeled chair.  
  
 _No!_  
  
Oberyn felt its seat and then reported that it was cold. She had long since departed from it.  
  
Rhaella heard footsteps in the shadows, and she knew it was _him_.  
  
 _You’re too late…_  
  
Rhaella felt a chill travel down her back in that moment.  
  
“You don’t think—?” gasped Hoster to Rhaella quietly, unable to finish his own sentence, likely for fear of what his words might mean.  
  
“I’ll kill the demon with my own hands if he did,” replied Rhaella loudly, not caring if her voice echoed off the stone.  
  
“If he did what?” croaked a voice, and Rhaella turned to see leaning against the Father's foot in the shadows was Bonifer… only he looked far different from how she’d seen him earlier in the evening. He was without armor and rather disheveled looking with a torn doublet and shirt to expose his back. His face was bruised, his lip bloodied, and he seemed to avoid putting any weight on his left leg.  
  
“Seven Hells!” exclaimed Hoster beside her.  
  
Lord Commander Manly had two of his men assist Bonifer into a better position, during which Rhaella managed to catch a glimpse of his back which revealed lash marks and lines of blood.  
  
“B—bonifer… what happened?” queried Rhaella with a slight tremor to her voice. She hesitantly approached him.  
  
“I was punished…” admitted Bonifer with great difficulty.  
  
“Punished? By whom?” questioned Rhaella, her heart pounding faster in that moment than she’d hoped.  
  
Bonifer did not face her, and she had to strain to hear him admit, “By my second in command…”  
  
“And why were you punished?” pressed Hoster with a decided edge to his voice.  
  
“For misinterpreting the High Septon’s orders…” confessed Bonifer.  
  
“Oh Bonifer…” cried out Rhaella, unable to hold herself back from him any longer. But as she approached he turned his head away--though she could see what pain it caused him to move--and decidedly avoided her touch, in a manner which she’d seen Naerys intimate when she did not wish to be touched.  
  
“And where in dragging my sister to this desecrated building did you _misinterpret_ your orders?!” spat Oberyn venomously. Rhaella could not tell whether he was angrier because of the High Septon or because Bonifer's interpretation of his orders.  
  
“He was only supposed to bring the Princess, not force her to come… the Holy Hundred guards were more of an honor of her high rank and position,” explained a voice which echoed from the shadows. Rhaella recognized it immediately as the High Demon Bones, but it sounded as though it came from every direction at once.  
  
“Lies…filthy lies…” muttered Bonifer under his breath, but it was loud enough to echo in the Sept.  
  
“Careful Lord Warden… or does Ser Erren need to remind you of what occurs to those who spout nothing but lies?” charged the voice from the shadows. It sounded as if he’d moved from where he had been before.  
  
“The Holy Hundred are not the Faith Militant!” charged Bonifer out into the shadows.  
  
“Not officially, but if their new lord commander sees fit to form an alliance with myself to preserve order in Westeros, no one—not even the King would challenge it.”  
  
“Where’s my sister?!” called out Oberyn with a decided growl.  
  
It was now that the High Demon emerged from the shadows at the foot of the statue of the Crone. His face appeared even more gaunt and stretched over his skull in the candlelight than normal. “Perfectly fine, I assure you. We had an… enlightening discussion just before all of you arrived. The Crone’s light does shine on you and your crimes, Prince Oberyn.” The High Demon lit a small lantern  
  
Rhaella then heard foot steps coming up the stairs that led to the crypts below the Sept. As the footfalls came closer slowly out of the shadows appeared a knight dressed in the garb of the Holy Hundred, accompanied by many more who Rhaella now saw as her eyes adjusted to the new light added by the lantern more properly rimmed the entire Sept and had hidden against the walls in the shadows—equalling the guards and Gold Cloaks that she, Lord Commander Manly, and Hoster had brought themselves. Lord Commander Manly seeing the men surrounding him communicated silently with the rest of his Gold Cloaks to surround them, no doubt should the Holy Hundred choose to attack them. The knight emerging from the stairs was carrying Elia, who was held as though she were a babe in the arms of the large imposing man, who stopped next to the High Demon.  
  
“Elia!” called out Oberyn, who ran towards her, Hoster was not far behind him.  
  
“Oberyn!” returned Elia. She then attempted to get out of her captor's grasp, only to cause herself to slip, just in time for both Oberyn and Hoster to catch her.  
  
“We’ve got you… you're safe,” Rhaella heard Oberyn whisper to his sister as Elia began to cry either out of frustration or exhaustion for there was no grief or anger in the action.  
  
“You shouldn’t have come,” sobbed Elia as she clung tightly to Oberyn’s neck for a moment. Then she saw Hoster, who coordinated with Oberyn to return her to her chair and added, “Gods, none of you should have come…”  
  
“Nothing would have prevented me from coming,” assured Hoster as he worked with Oberyn to lower her back into her chair.  
  
“Do you truly think we’d leave you to this _demon_?” questioned Rhaella. Rhaella noticed Bonifer froze at the use of the term, but he said nothing in response to it.  
  
“Demon am I? And here I thought I had the good Queen Dowager’s approval for my defense of the Faith,” questioned the High Septon gravely.  
  
Rhaella let forth her thoughts at that moment, “Aye a demon! I was blinded before, but now I see all too clearly. You are power hungry. You use people to expand your power until you no longer have use for them and then turn of them when you have found a more useful alternative. A true High Septon would know his place and unite the faithful—not divide us further. Since you took power the Faith has only fractured further, not mended! Had a true High Septon arisen, all these splinter sects would have dissipated like a summer shower.”  
  
“But I do know my place, your _grace_." He spat the honorific as if it held little value and continued, "As leader of the Faithful, and the voice of the Seven on earth, I know my place far better than you ever would.”  
  
“Your abduction of the Princess—” began Hoster.  
  
The High Demon Bones was quick to interject here, “Was committed by a man who misunderstood his orders… he has been punished and I give him to your authority to deal with him further as you see fit, my Lord Hand.”  
  
“Why take her?” questioned Rhaella.  
  
The High Demon responded, “Because a little mouse came to me and told me a tale of how the Princess asked her brother to send a Septa due to be brought in for inquiry back to Dorne for her. I of course did not believe such a tale, but I had of course to question her on the matter nonetheless.”  
  
“I sent the damned Septa to Dorne, all on my own! Elia had nothing to do with it” insisted Oberyn immediately.  
  
The High demon Bones smiled at that and then spoke aloud, “I told you that he would say that didn’t I my Princess? Now who is telling me the truth… since both claim full responsibility for the missing Septa, and the other's ignorance!” He spoke as if it were a question, but the High demon stared knowingly at Oberyn.  
  
“What does it matter that one Septa escaped your clutches?” interjected Hoster.  
  
The High Demon retorted, growing increasingly enraged and disgusted as he continued on, “What does it matter?! My Lord Hand, you best remain in politics, for in the war of religions, one is saved in the glory of the Seven Heavens or is burned for all eternity in the Seven Hells. If I, the Defender of the Faithful, allow for high lords and nobles to shelter or sneak out disobedient Septas and heretics from my grasps—where does it end? I mean already House Rosby attempted as such with the heretic Hesse, and House Hightower did as much to Lothar—though they have since seen the light since observing what Lord Gyles underwent. If word spreads that either the Prince or Princess protected a heretic, why all that goodwill I built up with Lord Rosby’s trial will vanish, and the disease which these heretics contaminate simple pious souls with, will spread. Already Lothar has disappeared from Hightower. The men the Starry Sept sent out couldn't find him. I had his word press destroyed at Hightower but his little pamphlets as he calls them are still being pressed somewhere for new ones are passed around in the Reach and reach me here in King's Landing. Pamphlets that I assure you, my Lord Hand hold nothing in them that make either my job or yours any easier. By dealing with this problem now in this way I can continue to rip out the weed by the root before it has a chance to grow and choke us all—the Faith, the nobles, and even the Crown. The West rose in rebellion based on the preachings of these mad Septons. Do you wish to see the rest of Westeros fall prey next?! Do you truly want blood flowing through the streets of the capital like rainwater?!”  
  
“But blood already flows through the streets! Or did I miss the street decorated with bodies from here to Aegon’s Hill?!” exclaimed Rhaella firmly.  
  
“Heretics and Seditionists,” dismissed the High Demon with a wave of his hand.  
  
“Even the children, whose tongues you’ve cut out?!” demanded Rhaella. At this she saw a reaction wave across the Holy Hundred which surrounded her, most seeming disgusted by the act which she purported.  
  
The High Demon looked truly exasperated at this, but then narrowed his face and began approaching their group.  
  
“I do not kill children,” spat the High Demon, pretending to be disgusted by the act. No doubt he secretly enjoyed the act, like Aerys enjoyed watching men burn.  
  
“Then why are they hanging alongside your Septons and Septas?” demanded Oberyn.  
  
“No doubt the work of some seditionist who seeks to split the crown and faith for his own gain,” justified the High Demon so simply, as though it were obvious.  
  
“We don’t care to hear your excuses,” countered Hoster with disgust.  
  
“Excuses? They’re the truth!” insisted the High Demon, taking a few steps closer.  
  
“Is there no man left who will rid us of this meddlesome demon?!” cried out Rhaella to the Gold Cloaks and confused looking Holy Hundred—who at the word of murdered children seemed to have awakened some sense of dignity and honor.  
  
“I am not the one to be judged here… he is!” proclaimed the High Demon, who then pointed directly at Oberyn.  
  
“If you want me, then you’ll have to fight me!” declared Oberyn, taking his spear from Deryn.  
  
“Would you truly risk your sister’s safety?” questioned the High Demon who then motioned for more of the Holy Hundred to step forward, and it seemed even more appeared than Rhaella had ssen before. Not only were they rimmed now, they were truly and utterly surrounded.  
  
“Elia leaves,” declared Oberyn at once.  
  
“No! Oberyn, don’t!” insisted Elia.  
  
The High Demon nodded and Hoster and Lord Commander Manly had two more men immediately begin to wheel her towards the steps leading to the door, followed by the two men who'd retrieved Bonifer. It seemed assumed that Rhaella would follow, but she felt her place was still here. The path to the door was unblocked as the High Demon waved his hand to the Holy Hundred knights.  
  
Elia called out as her chair was lifted up the steps, "Stop this madness, Oberyn! You can't fight them all!"  
  
"Nor will I. I demand for a trial by combat. If I'm to be judged, then let the Seven judge me!" proclaimed Oberyn with a defiant glare to the High Demon.  
  
The High Demon seemed to lick his lips in anticipation before saying,“I like that... she leaves and you stay to submit yourself to a trial by combat… we’ll let the Seven proclaim your guilt, with her grace as witness to the event,” proffered the High Demon as he now motioned for the larger man, whom Rhaella took to be Ser Erren. The High Demon was so close to Rhaella and Oberyn now, only within a few short paces, and coming closer.  
  
 _Stop them momma… stop them!_  
  
And suddenly the last piece of the Seven’s warning to her through Baelor made sense. This was how she would protect her family and save the Faith. “No, you won’t!” declared Rhaella, who grabbed the dagger from Oberyn’s waist and then rushed forward and stabbed the High demon high in his soft belly. Seeing the red of his blood seep through his white robes, caused Rhaella to freeze in horror at what she saw. Everything seemed to occur quickly next, far too quickly for Rhaella to understand. Men of the Holy Hundred rushed forward to surround them all. Gold Cloaks and guards met to fight them back. Rhaella felt someone grab her by the hand. Somewhere far away she heard steel clashing and screaming, but all she saw was the blackened and burning Aerys, sitting upon the foot of the Stranger’s marble robes, calling out his usual insults to her... plus one other.  
 _  
Slut… whore… murderer!_  
  
And then the Sept of Baelor seemed to fade from view as Aerys became the only thing in a vast void of darkness. Aerys approached her then.  
  
 _“You betrayed me, sisterwife! Before we were ever married you betrayed me!”_ he accused her as he slapped her.  
  
 _“How so?”_ she recalled asking once, when she had been young, foolish, and defiant.  
  
 _“You never spilt blood in my bed you whore!”_ spat Aerys and then slapped her across her face so hard she fell over and felt a small trickle of blood thereafter.  
  
The burning Aerys snorted and then said, "Get up! Get up, Rhaella!" before he pulled her by her hair and twisted.  
  
The pain, gods she wanted it to end.  
  
Aerys' burning red-violet eyes met hers, and he said, _“Don’t think the Seven look kindly upon you marrying your lustful partner, slut!”_  
  
 _“You are dead and buried, Aerys. Dead and buried. Dead and buried!”_ she spoke as if it were a spell to banish him from her.  
  
 _“Not as long as your bastard bloodline claims to be my own!”_ rounded Aerys as he let go of her, causing her to fall to her knees and once again to the floor with another hard slap to her other cheek.  
  
 _“Not this again,”_ she remembered groaning once. It was one of his favorite theories to say to her when Rhaegar did something he didn't approve of.  
  
 _“That melancholy little runt is not my son! He’s your bastard get! I know it!”_ snapped Aerys.  
  
 _“Be gone!”_ she exclaimed, moving her hand as if to stab him—with what she knew not. But in the next instant Aerys had transformed into the High demon, blood staining the front of his pristine white robes, and the void became the Sept of Baelor at dawn.  
  
 _“Murderer!”_ shouted a voice which echoed throught the Sept of Baelor.  
  
 _“It is no sin to kill a demon and a tyrant!”_ she declared, but still the word echoed amongst the Sept. Unable to bear the word, Rhaella ran up the steps and out the doors of the Sept, and into a bright light.  
  
The next instant she was on a Tourney field. She heard laughter and shouts. Looking up, Rhaella saw what appeared to be Elia, standing, heavily pregnant and applauding, next to her side was what appeared to be Robert Baratheon, but there was something different about them both. It was only when Rhaella looked further amongst the persons of the royal box that she realized what it was she was seeing.  
  
 _That’s Rhaenys and her husband!_  
  
The knight for whom all the applause was for rode forth to stand before the royal box. Rhaella recognized two of his most fervent supporters, an older Aelinor and Naerys. Aelinor was beautiful with her long brown hair done in various braids down her back and adorned with violets woven in to them to match the purple silk and velvet dress she wore, while Naerys wore much the same, except in all white, without a Septa’s rainbow belt and cowl in sight. Rhaella watched as Aelinor leaned over the edge of the box and hugged the knight and kissed his helm approximately where his cheek would be, prompting the laughter of many of the attended. It was then that Rhaella noticed the knight’s armor was of the Hasty colors, with a dragon made of amethysts inlaid in his armor.  
  
 _The Amethyst Dragon…_  
  
 _Gods no! He is to be High Septon and save the Faith!_  
  
“Well done, uncle!” called out Rhaenys proudly. It was then that Rhaenys’ husband stood—Durran looked strong, though different from what she had imagined him to look like, and did he ever look so much younger than Rhaenys. He stood and plucked the crown of flowers from the pillow beside him and held it out for the Amethyst dragon's lance.  
  
Durran even sounded younger than he looked as he proclaimed, “For such a victory may I wish you crown a lady most worthy of sharing such a triumph!”  
  
The crown of flowers was placed upon the end of Baelor’s lance and he rode about the crowd, circling once before settling upon another member of the royal box, one who sat next to Aelinor and Naerys, and beyond her Baratheon coloring, appeared to be her mother’s twin.  
  
 _Princess Lyarra!_  
  
The entire tourney seemed to gasp in a shocked silence. Lyarra stood and awkwardly accepted the crown, which she placed upon her head, but there was no applause—even Rhaenys appearing crestfallen.  
  
 _Not again! No! Not again!_  
  
She rushed forward from her spot to try and end the moment but it vanished as soon as she took a step from her place, and suddenly Rhaella was out among the streets of King’s Landing—the very street that led up to the Sept of Baelor. The sky was now red from the setting son, and cast an orange glow amongst the streets. It was a shocking sight to see. The entire street was littered with dead bodies so that one step could not be taken without stepping on some man, woman or child—some wearing Seven-Pointed stars upon their clothes and others wearing what looked like a single white dot like a full moon. Blood stained the streets and Rhaella could see a hooded figure with a long-nosed mask wandering the street, occasionally rolling over a body or kicking another.  
  
 _Gods... the Stranger could be seen walking amongst the streets._  
  
She moved again and now she saw a different city somewhere else—a place she’d never visited before, but one she recognized the instant she saw what appeared to be the famous tower of Hightower not far off in the distance. Oldtown. She was now in Oldtown amongst a crowd that had gathered before the entrance to what she knew from drawings to be the Citadel. Before it was a tremendous pile of books all burning and giving off a heat she felt even where she was hidden in the crowd.  
  
"No word beyond the Seven Pointed Star matters! All other knowledge is of this world and therefore wicked!" proclaimed a dark figure--another demon in man shape. He had prominent teeth with one at a slightly off angle, he further had a long black beard streaked with grey, and was dressed in a completely black cowl.  
  
It appeared as though smallfolk had broken into the Citadel for many of them were armed with halberds and pikes atop of which were adorned heads still dripping with blood. And further within the gates of the Citadel, Rhaella could see Maesters of all shapes, sizes, colors, and even ages being forced to kneel before a line of several men with swords who swung and chopped their heads off with scary efficiency.  
  
"The One God shall come and wipe away the rest of the world and leave all of us Oldtown delivered to resettle the earth in a new golden age, one based on the word of god and the word of god alone!" proclaimed the man.  
  
The crowd made up of mostly smallfolk and merchants from what Rhaella could see screamed with enthusiasm for the large part.  
  
"Sing... sing with me Holy Hesse's song!" encouraged the man in black.  
  
And then the crowd began to erupt with joyous rapture and then quieted as a slow but haunting melody began to filter its way through the crowd.  
  
 _“O Creator above I praise your creation,_  
 _As Father you weigh my salvation,_  
 _As Mother provide me with mercy..."_  
  
She awoke in a tower cell—a well furnished and comfortable, but locked tower cell—the kind she’d known the Stark heir to have been imprisoned in before the arrival of his father. After a huge sigh of relief, she then began to gasp for breath several times until she had worked herself up into a fit from which a good long scream followed by a flood of tears was her only salvation to wipe from her mind the horrors which the Seven had allowed her to see.  
  
When she had run out of tears to cry she vowed to herself that Baelor would wear the crystal crown before he ever took up arms.


	83. Jaime VI

**JAIME**  
  
It took him several moons to recover enough so that he might be able to sit a horse. By the time the damn Vikary maester had proclaimed him able; he had grown anxious remaining solely within his chambers. He had a pronounced limp and needed a cane to move about, but he could still wield a sword, godsdamnit, so he’d been determined to ride a horse as well. By the time he was riding the snows were beginning to melt and whatever remained of the smallfolk rebellion was likely frozen or starved to death, making travel through the Westerlands more advisable. Tyrion and Jaime planned to move on to Clegane Keep along with Ser and Lady Clegane and their retinue where Jaime had sent word to a few lords of the south and east of the Westerlands to meet him—the lord he looked forward to reuniting with most of all being Lord Roland Crakehall, son of old Lord Sumner, whom Jaime had squired with. If any family could assist them back to Casterly Rock and wipe the Rock clean of the traitors who’d left him for dead to the smallfolk mob, it was the Crakehalls and their allies.  
  
Ser Sandor and his wife traveled lightly and with children, so their party was destined to travel slowly, a pace at which Jaime felt relieved for while he longed to gallop on his coarser, every quick flex of the horse’s muscles and sides brought with it a numbing pain to his right side. After what surely felt like a decade, but was actually a week’s worth of travel over rough land of fields, pasture, and woods avoiding the major roads if at all possible, they arrived to the vale which House Clegane was responsible for. The sight upon seeing it from the crest brought back memories of his travel to the keep once before when he’d arrived with the King and Lords Stark and Arryn to drive the Ironborn from the Westerlands. The village seemed a house or two larger, but otherwise remained as unchanged as Lord Stark had wished to preserve it, and some of the Ironborn fortifications had gone into building a palisade and earthen mound surrounding the stone keep that House Clegane held. But that was not the most significant difference. The largest came with how nearly the entire valley was filled with pavilions and tents flying banners proudly displaying boars, owls on plates, chequey coins, purpure unicorns, unicorns and ravens, purpure stars, sable crossbows and many others. Tyrion upon sight of all the banners stopped his horse and seemed to stare in awe at the number of men Jaime’s furious messages to Lord Roland had conjured up for him.  
  
“Bloody Hell!” exclaimed Ser Sandor upon the sight of his vale.  
  
“My thoughts exactly…” added Tyrion, who at this moment took the opportunity to pull up the hood to his plain brown traveler’s cloak and adjust it better so that he would be indistinguishable as they passed through the encampment to Clegane’s Keep. They had agreed that in case there were any who were associated with trying to kill him it would be best to reveal his survival to the lords alone first and later to their men. Tyrion had said that the fewer men saw him alive initially, the more likely they could take Cersei by surprise. Jaime doubted that Cersei would be behind all of this—she was their sister after all.  
  
The bastard of Clegane, was all excited by the sight of all the banners, eagerly telling them to his aunt as they rode through the encampment. It was a small army. Already Jaime was beginning to have his doubts as to inviting them all to meet as such a small keep as Clegane’s, but he reminded himself it was an ideal location for it wasn’t too far from Lannisport nor too close either. He just underestimated how many retainers the lords would bring with them. It might have been better to have met at Boarshead Hall given the size he was seeing, but he had been eager to leave the damn place and accompanying the Clegane’s had sounded like a good idea at the time to his milk of the poppy addled brain.  
  
“There’s Lord Crakehall’s boar, and Lord Garner’s owls, Lord Payne’s coins, Lord Brax’s unicorn, and Lord Doggett’s unicorn and raven!”  
  
“What about the others?” asked Lady Clegane with good-humor as she shifted the bundle slung about her shoulder gently. Her babe was wrapped tightly in swaddling and within that bundle.  
  
“I… I… uh… um…Lord Pemble… no that’s not right… Pendle… Pebble… Peckle! Lord Peckledon’s stars!”  
  
“Aye and the crossbows and the pall inverted with three lions' heads?” urged Lady Clegane.  
  
“I… I… I don’t know…” admitted the bastard boy as his pale cheeks grew quite red.  
  
“Lord Drox and Lord Jast—with Lord Lefford’s golden hill over there,” finished Jaime for him.  
  
“I knew Lord Lefford’s sigil!” defended the boy.  
  
“You knew far more than I did at your age,” Jaime offered, figuring the lad’s age to be about the time his father had attempted to drill into him all the Houses of Westeros to little avail as Jaime had had little interest as a young boy in anything that wasn’t exciting, whether that be jumping or diving from increasingly higher points on the Rock into the bay below, exploring the vast tunnels of Casterly Rock, practicing his swordplay, or even discovering Cersei for the first time—sitting in front of a book and memorizing sigils and words just didn’t seem as, well, important in comparison. It hadn’t been until as a squire, Lord Sumner had taken him to his first tourney that Jaime saw not only the necessity, but the usefulness in learning them all—though at the time he only ever bothered to learn the sigils of all the Westerlands houses, the great houses, and any notable knights he either heard as legendary or wished someday to face. Learning more than that to his young mind just didn’t seem useful or practical, not until much later that was.  
  
Jaime greeted several familiar faces who all took notice of him. He tried to hold back his grimaces when the bloody horse misstepped over a rock, for the sake of appearing better than he actually felt. No one noticed Tyrion, as all eyes were upon him—just as they’d hoped. He called out to a few lords that he wished to meet with them later in the evening.  
  
They arrived at the gate of Clegane’s Keep with enough time for the guards of the wooden thing to blow their horns and begin to open it as they saw their sworn knight approach. When the gates opened a man with long sleek and wet-looking black hair and bear, with a gaunt expression to his frame dressed in Clegane livery immediately rushed from one of the smaller buildings to greet the party along with many other servants behind him.  
  
“Murchadh!” exclaimed the young bastard with great excitement as he dismounted and rather unceremoniously greeted the man with a hug. For an instant, had Jaime not met the boy’s mother at Boarshead Hall nor knew her tale, Jaime would have suspected that the servant to who received the hug with a sly smile was the boy’s father. Curiosity getting the better of him, he asked Lady Clegane how long the man had worked for their house. She mentioned that he had been there as long as she had lived in the castle. Jaime now began to wonder if there was more to Lady Vikary’s tale than first appeared.  
  
His suspicions seemed to be confirmed when the man came up to apologize to his knight and lady for not having better prepared for their arrival. The gate closed behind them at this moment with a noticeable bang.  
  
“The bloody encampment has nearly hunted the woods dry of game, making my job a bit more difficult, my lady,” exclaimed Murchadh  
  
“They won’t be here for much longer,” assured Tyrion as he began to work at the straps to his saddle which kept him tied to it.  
  
“I fucking hope so…” grumbled the Clegane knight.  
  
That evening the Lords themselves were invited into the meager little hall of Ser and Lady Clegane. Nearly all the chairs had to be fetched and a gross preponderance of food was put out before them. Seeing the vast quantities which the lords were consuming, Jaime was right to think that moving for the Rock sooner rather than later would be a better idea. Tyrion wasted no time upon making an entrance, waiting only for all the lords to assemble and for the shutters and doors to be closed before revealing himself in the torch-lit hall of the keep. When he had first sat down, Jaime had been the center of attention, with many asking what he intended by gathering them together. Jaime had answered them as well as he could given the circumstances, saying that the King had charged him to bring order to the Westerlands as the newly appointed Warden of the West, and that was what he planned on doing. That he was taking a few liberties with these orders Jaime thought Stark would be good on his word and smooth over any issues. Just as Tyrion was ready to enter Jaime was already dealing with the latest fire.  
  
“Your sister wants us all to come in person and renew our fealty to her daughter. A daughter! Lady Clifton’s since had a son, Tommen’s his name, and I’d swear allegiance to the lad, but your sister insists that he’s to be Lord Clifton one day, while her Myrcella as her eldest is to be Lady of the Rock in her own right,” grumbled Lord Petyr Peckledon.  
  
“What does she think this is? Dorne?!” added Lord Serrett, to which many of the lords roared their approval, inadvertently spitting some of the meat in their mouths out as they did so. Most notable of all of these was the Strongboar, Jaime’s compatriot during his squiring years with Lord Sumner.  
  
“And is that all your argument stands upon goodnephew? I would think you’d know better than to argue that!” chimed in the aged Lady Eleyna Crakehall, the late Lord Sumner’s wife. She was a Garner by birth whose Garner niece had married Lord Petyr. In fact nearly all the assembled lords were gathered together due to some marriage or another—and not all of them enforced by his lack-witted uncle, either.  
  
“No one doubts a woman’s capability to rule, mother,” chimed in Lord Roland, “but insisting that a sister comes before her brother where the law clearly says it isn’t so, is where I draw the line.”  
  
“And if the law were written by women, men would to our blessed fortune have little chance of ruining the world any worse than they do already,” grumbled Lady Eleyna.  
  
Her son did not back down, instead saying, “If the law said that what goes in Dorne goes for the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, then I’d happily support the right of the Lady Myrcella Clifton Lannister, but the fact remains that it doesn’t. Knowing that, and then breaking the rule irregardless, that’s just outright defiance. If Cersei breaks this law what’s to keep her from breaking others? Such as ones protecting our own interest?”  
  
“The Iron Throne, you dolt,” pointed out Lady Eleyna as she took her knife to a particularly tough piece of venison.  
  
The aged Lord Doggett spoke up at this juncture, saying, “Whose interest hasn’t been put into the Westerlands in years. No disrespect to yourself Ser Jaime, but as far as the Iron Throne is concerned, they only care if we’re invaded by the bloody Ironborn. They care not a lick for the murders of the babes, the forced marriages, fraudulent taxes, or rampant corruption that went on under the regency of Lord Stafford. I know you attempted to put these things to right Ser Jaime, but had little support from the King on the matter.”  
  
“On the matter of the murders of the babes, the King charged that it was the High Septon’s domain on the matter who washed his hands clean of the affair when he considered the babes heathen offspring,” Jaime sneered.  
  
“Thank the Seven that ridiculous fool is dead,” added Lady Eleyna.  
  
“Aye!” added more than a few voices, some even being so bold as to raise their goblets on the matter.  
  
“Dead?!” asked Jaime, caught by surprise at this announcement.  
  
“Aye, killed by the Queen Dowager some say, others say that it was Prince Oberyn, and other rumors say that the Lord Warden Hasty finally came to his senses. In any matter the fact remains that the man is dead and replaced with a man everyone is calling “the High Dove”. Mayhaps now that all his trials are over all the radicals will stop having such power over the smallfolk,” tutted Lady Eleyna.  
  
Lord Doggett brought the conversation back to the topic he wished to finish, “The things that were done in the late High Septon’s name, but also Lord Tyrion’s name… gods help us have only gotten worse under your sister with this smallfolk rebellion being used as excuse to encourage such practices. She’s betrothed my darling Daryene—my only child—to Ser Greenfield’s youngest brother.”  
  
“With such capacity for _ruling_ , is it any wonder that we heard tales of different lords hoveling up in their strongholds and simply letting the rebellion pass their lands without doing something about it?! Is that the kind of kingdom we were in the days of the Grey Lion?” questioned Lord Brax with much agitation that his amethyst unicorn pin shook upon his breast.  
  
“No!” emphatically agreed the majority of the lords present in near unison.  
  
Lord Lefford spoke at this instant, “Which is why, Ser Jaime we have been hoping that this meeting might perhaps be to discuss a specific concern of ours.”  
  
“What concern are you referring?” queried Jaime, suddenly uneasy of the tone Lord Lefford had brought into the discussion.  
  
Lord Lefford looked up and down the table, as if to gain consent before speaking further. When he seemed to have collected their approval, he began by saying, “Considering the wounds you’ve sustained, I doubt you will ever be as formidable a fighter as you were in your youth.”  
  
“I have not yet seen my thirtieth nameday, my lord,” Jaime interjected, not liking the road this was quickly traveling down.  
  
The Strongboar, still wiping the ale from his beard, spoke up now, saying, “Aye, but you can be of little use to the Kingsguard now that you need a third _paw_ to maneuver. A three legged-lion is at best a pitiable creature on the field of battle.”  
  
“The Kingsguard serves for life!” interjected Jaime. He’d taken a vow. Where was Tyrion? He was supposed to have made his introduction by now.  
  
Lord Drox spoke up, “There have been men who’ve been dismissed from its ranks before—Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell for their parts in the abduction of the Queen.”  
  
“You may be of little use on the battlefield, but on the throne of the Rock you could still dispense justice and rule like the Father above,” now added the previously quiet Lord Serrett.  
  
“I have a daughter whom you could marry and have many little lion cubs with! My Felesa had her first moon’s blood a little more than two namedays ago, and she’s growing into a fine woman. Your sister betrothed her to her steward, but as Lady of the Rock—” now added Lord Garner though he wasn’t afforded the chance to finish his thought.  
  
“You are the eldest child of Lord Tywin,” added Lady Eleyna, though she wouldn’t have known that Cersei was but a minute his senior.  
  
“My Lords… Lady Eleyna, I cannot possibly—” he began, but it was no use speaking over them at this point.  
  
“Do it for the Westerlands! Please, Lord Jaime,” implored Lord Drox.  
  
Being called Lord was going too far. “I cannot!” insisted Jaime as upon instinct he stood, forgetting for a moment about his right leg and grimacing as he quickly had to  
  
“Why ever not? The King has all but appointed it already, making you Warden of the West!” insisted Lord Payne.  
  
“Because of me, my lords,” interjected Tyrion in that moment, and the entire collected table turned to see his brother standing not too far in the door. He was dressed in the best scarlet and gold cloth that they could have mustered together to form a doublet and trousers while at Boarshead Hall. It wasn’t tailor made, having been sewn off and on by Lady Vikary and Lady Clegane when their duties as mothers were not so pressing, but it still looked well-made nonetheless. In the dim torchlight the clothes benefited his look, as he appeared imposing for all his lack of stature and twisted face and far more regal in addition.  
  
“Seven Hells! The Lord Imp lives!” exclaimed the Strongboar.  
  
“My Lord Tyrion… we weren’t aware that you…” began Lord Roland, clearly caught off guard by Tyrion’s appearance.  
  
“That I survived the mob? Of course not, but then very few people regard a dwarf beyond what entertainment they can provide. And even smallfolk like to be entertained…”  
  
“What did they do with you?” questioned Lord Andros Brax.  
  
Tyrion by this point had one of the servants take a stool which Jaime had had set aside and pull it up upon the opposite head of the table from Jaime. In that instant, Jaime nodded his head in respect to his brother—as well as giving him a “you couldn’t have come sooner,” look before at long last sitting down to ease his throbbing leg.  
  
Tyrion continued as a flagon of wine filled a goblet for him, “I was their fool to make them forget their starving bellies, the poor souls.”  
  
At news of this the entire collection of Lords and knights frowned and grumbled.  
  
“That one of such blood should be so misused…” commented Lord Doggett.  
  
Tyrion added, “I’m just thankful they didn’t kill me outright like they did Ser Preston’s squire, Kenyth, the poor boy.”  
  
Lady Eleyna seemed to catch on to the purpose of their meeting rather quickly, speaking “And Lord Tyrion, what kind of Lord of the Rock do you intend to be, if we should support you in supplanting your elder sister?”  
  
“It’s not a matter of _if_ , mother,” complained Lord Roland.  
  
“Let Lord Tyrion answer for himself, I’m quite interested to hear what he has to say,” scolded Lady Eleyna.  
  
“My Lords, and Lady Eleyna, I have been listening to all your complaints from behind those doors that you presented to my knightly brother, and I have to say that my sister like my uncle before her, has shown a blatant disregard for your concerns for yourselves and the traditions and laws of our kingdom. To say that immediately putting myself in her place will cause all these issues to disappear is absurd. But if we work together in alliance with one another then gods know the Westerlands might start to begin recovering from the Ironborn invasion and begin reminding the Iron Throne why the West is so important to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. But none of these matters can be addressed if we cannot get the Rock back and keep me from facing yet another coup from my kith and kin.”  
  
“Do not write off your kin so readily, Lord Tyrion. My Shiera is wed to the son of your new castellan of the Rock, Ser Damon Lannister. With their assistance, I’m sure the ousting of your sister from the Rock can easily be achieved,” stated Lady Eleyna rather confidently.  
  
“Lady Eleyna, I have yet to hear such a compelling argument made for family loyalty than yours,” japed Tyrion with a smirk. He then questioned, “And tell me, what has my aunt Genna to say on the matter. She is after all your daughter Melesa’s goodmother and mother to her heirs.”  
  
Jaime noticed Lady Eleyna seemed somewhat caught off guard, but she recovered quite well with a slight laugh  
  
“You have quite the prescience of mind, Lord Tyrion, but to answer your question, Lady Frey requests that a betrothal be made between Lady Jeyne Westerling and her grandson Tywin Frey.”  
  
Several of the lords at this broke out into a blustering cacophony of sound.  
  
“This is exactly the kind of thing we all agreed against!” shouted Lord Brax.  
  
“The girl isn’t even being raised in the Westerlands!” called Lord Lefford.  
  
“She’s just another wolf now—that’s all that the Bloody Wolf knows how to raise,” grumbled Lord Drox.  
  
Tyrion replied quite calmly, “I assume of course my aunt hopes that such a betrothal might come with a good share of Castemere mining wealth that’s been sitting there untouched for nigh forty years?”  
  
Lady Eleyna seemed pleased as she replied, “Aye, which is exactly why I would advise you to reject her offer, my lord.”  
  
“Indeed? Would you then instead suggest the Westerling girl betrothed to another grandson of yours? Mayhaps Shiera’s son, Lucian? Would that pay my cost of getting into the Rock undetected then?”  
  
Lady Eleyna’s face turned a rather unattractive shade of red that contrasted with her brown gown and grey hair, as she stated outright “I would prefer not to discuss the future of a girl who cannot speak for herself nor support trading her like we do coin, though you’d do the Westerlands a favor to retrieve Lord Westerling from the Bloody Wolf’s jaws, but that is an entirely different matter. Leave the issue of your aunt to myself for the nonce and she will support you.”  
  
  
“As I said, Lady Eleyna, you make the most compelling case for family devotion that I’ve ever heard,” tutted Tyrion, who after taking a sip said “The decision of whoever Lady Westerling marries or is betrothed to will be one her brother, Lord Westerling will decide. I’ve already seen the folly that can come from my Uncle’s misguided attempts at matchmaking, and I do not intend to repeat his mistakes.”  
  
“Well put, Lord Tyrion,” agreed Lord Andros Brax, whose fine golden brown hair had only gone grey around his ears.  
  
Jaime felt the need to interject at this moment, “However, before take Lord Westerling North with him, Lord Stark did agree to have the young lordling would squire with a Westerlands knight.”  
  
There was some interest in this proclamation, but before this could go any further Lord Payne spoke, “We are getting off topic, that doesn’t solve the problem of how you get into the Rock without your would-be assassins’ noticing.”  
  
“No, it doesn’t. Quite frankly my Lords and Lady, I don’t care how I get in there, even if I have to strip naked and rub myself down with butter to slip through a crag in the Rock like my forbearer,” here Tyrion paused for a laugh which the lords easily gave before continuing, “I am of small enough stature to be put inside a crate and slipped in through the ships that make port in the inner harbor underneath the Rock, if it comes to that, but I would much prefer to hide amongst your retainers my lords as you go to swear fealty to the new Lannister of the Rock.”  
  
It was soon agreed upon that Tyrion would dress in motley for Lady Eleyna, and upon meeting Cersei in the Golden Gallery, reveal himself and all the support of the unspoiled southern and eastern lords of the Westerlands. The strengthening of their alliance was suggested with betrothals and marriages as each lord present sought if they were not already joined together to cement their ties as families. Lady Felesa Garner was to be Tyrion’s bride. The girl that might have been Jaime’s wife seemed to look at his brother with a kind of shock at first meeting the following morning as they took a stroll about the tiny yard Clegane Keep boasted. Occasionally while conversing with his brother, the Lady would lift her honey brown eyes from Tyrion to look at Jaime—who refused to leave Tyrion without proper guard—no doubt with some regret there. Jaime couldn’t help but feel both the girl and his brother misused, but there was little to be done about it now.  
  
Tyrion, thank the gods, was not blind to this and addressed it rather quickly to the girl all dressed in fine green garments adorned with owl’s feathers for decoration along the white fur trim of her sleeves and neck, “My lady, I know I may not be what you expected when your father spoke to you of an alliance between our two houses,”  
  
“My lord, if we are to be man and wife may I ask a boon of you?” asked Felesa, her brown hair held back in an emerald studded hairnet just perfectly catching the light.  
  
Tyrion was gracious enough to say, “Name it, my lady.”  
  
Lady Felesa stopped walking in that moment to say, “That we refer to one another by our names, and be completely honest with one another.”  
  
“Nothing would please me more my—Felesa,” responded Tyrion with a smirk.  
  
Lady Felesa turned to Tyrion and to her credit resisted the urge to kneel to his level and embarrass him further, as she said, “It is a betrothal to suit us both. We shall be Lord and Lady of the Rock, what does it matter what I expected when what we will make can be greater than either of our expectations?”  
  
 _Clever… Tyrion you’d best beware this owl’s talons._  
  
“And what would you have us make besides more lion cubs?” tested Tyrion.  
  
“Peace and stability for the Westerlands,” she said rather silkily.  
  
“And do you think yourself up to such a challenge then?”  
  
“Didn’t you say to my father and all the lords present that you wished to work together on this matter?” queried Felesa.  
  
“Aye, but to expect one’s wife to share such a goal—” began Tyrion.  
  
“Is too much to expect? Well, why not? Am I not as much a Westerlander as much as you are, Tyrion?” challenged Felesa.  
  
“Of course,” agreed Tyrion.  
  
She continued before allowing Tyrion opportunity to continue, “And haven’t we as nobly-born Westerlanders, been brought up to believe that it is our gods given duty to take care of our smallfolk—a lesson we’ve learned the importance of through viewing the poverty, starvation, and backwardness such ill stewardship brings to not just them but ourselves as well?”  
  
She had clearly prepared for such a conversation—Jaime wondered how she would have prompted this subject to appear had Tyrion not opened the door for her, but he left that to the wayside for the moment.  
  
“Aye, Felesa.”  
  
“Then why should it be any surprise that I, as your wife should wish to help you with your burdens?” questioned the girl.  
  
“You have me at a loss for words, a feat I am told is quite hard to achieve,” japed Tyrion.  
  
“Gods, I hope you have more to say than this, for I fear I have many things to consider in our marriage.”  
  
Decently pretty—not a beauty the singers would sing about for ages to come, but not homely by any means—with a sharp wit… this future lioness would be one to keep an eye upon in Jaime’s opinion. They would be married upon the retaking of the Rock.  
  
A raven was sent to the Rock announcing the arrival of the new Warden of the West with the Lords Loyal, as they termed themselves to Cersei, pledging to swear themselves loyally to the true heir of the Rock in the Golden Gallery. Jaime was to once again serve as distraction while Tyrion was to pass by unnoticed. Ascending through the Lion’s Mouth, Jaime did his best not to betray himself by looking towards Lady Eleyna’s retinue, but instead met with the guards who looked genuinely pleased to greet him. He passed them with little incident and none of the other parties met with any serious pains or was any attention drawn to Lady Eleyna’s motley dressed dwarf.  
  
Cersei, like their aunt Genna, had decked out the Golden Gallery with as much red to satisfy her tastes. Her husband, Lord Clifton shared the dais of the gallery with her, giving them the appearance of the Lord and Lady of the Rock in appearance. And upon Cersei’s lap sat his niece whose golden curls looked much like Cersei’s own.  
  
Cersei looked at him, but there was no endearment to her emerald eyes. They seemed cold and foreboding to Jaime. She stared for a long time at his cane and limp as though it were something which disgusted her. She spoke with warmth that did not match her eyes, saying, “Ahh, brother, it is good to see that the Iron Throne has come to its senses concerning the West. I do wonder though where Myrcella’s Master-at-arms can be, given I thought Ser Greenfield had gone out to meet you.”  
  
 _Thank you cousin Damon…_  
  
Jaime played his part as well as he could, saying, “He did not welcome me at the Lion’s Mouth, so I regret to say that Ser Preston failed to obey your commands.”  
  
He saw his sister’s eyes narrow at the intended test he’d given her.  
  
Cersei to her credit attempted to recover the best she could, standing and holding forth his niece in her arms, “No matter, my Lords… Lady Eleyna, brother, I present to you the future Lady of the Rock, Lady Myrcella Clifton Lannister.  
  
“We are quite glad to pay respect Lord Lannister’s heir,” announced Lady Eleyna.  
  
“Lady Lannister I believe you mean, Lady Crakehall, for my husband has not taken the Lannister name,” tutted Cersei who looked  
  
“I meant what I said, Lady Clifton,” tutted Lady Eleyna, and it was then that she stood way for Tyrion to step forward. Jaime paid little attention beyond Cersei’s face in this moment, hoping to see that his brother’s conclusions held little truth that Cersei wouldn’t have plotted all of this against their brother.  
  
Cersei looked genuinely shocked for a moment, before her eyes returned to their cold demeanor. Jaime had his answer, and he could hardly believe it. Jaime looked away in that instant to see all the Lords Loyal kneeling to Tyrion. Cersei had lowered Myrcella to the ground at this point and she’d toddled away from her mother to hide behind her father’s legs.  
  
“W—why brother, I… gods be praised you _live_ …” she tried to say with false sincerity, and a late curtsy.  
  
“No thanks to Ser Preston’s concern for my safety,” scoffed Tyrion  
  
“He seems to be less than effective,” commented Cersei.  
  
Tyrion rounded on this immediately, “That he does, whyever he was hired as Master-at-arms, I’ll never know—wouldn’t you agree goodbrother Clifton?”  
  
It was now the pale-faced Lord Clifton’s turn to speak, which he seemed incapable of as he sputtered to say something.  
  
Tyrion cut off Lord Gareth’s attempts at speech with, “No matter, the man will face trial in the morning and I shall have it out of him exactly who it was that convinced him to betray me.”  
  
At this Cersei and her husband shared a brief look, and if Jaime had had any doubts before he buried them with that look.  
  
“Now Cersei, I do believe you’re sitting in _my_ chair,” announced Tyrion. By this point Cersei looked positively furious, before huffing and descending the dais at her husband’s urging. Tyrion climbed the dias and with some less than graceful movement hoisted himself up onto the Golden Throne where he signaled for his betrothed to step forward. Felesa did so with a smirk.  
  
Tyrion smiled himself as he announced, “Sister, I want you to meet my betrothed, Lady Felesa Garner.”  
  
“It is my hope that we may be the closest of sisters, _Lady Clifton_ ,” emphasized Lady Felesa. Cersei looked positively roiled at this.  
  
“Now, I believe my Lords Loyal, there were some complaints you all wished me to address before my wedding?” commented Tyrion, and Jaime gave Tyrion a nod as he watched his brother take control of the Westerlands like he was always meant to do. Jaime kept his eyes on Cersei the entire day, careful to note who she spoke to whether it was a kitchen scullion or another lord or lady. The wedding was a small humble affair, as such a shortly planned ceremony allowed for. Still, Jaime kept his eyes trained upon Tyrion and Cersei throughout the event.  
  
Ser Preston was found dead in the morning with cousin Damon unable to explain how the man he’d made prisoner the day before had died in the cells found in bowels of the Rock. It was a hard blow, but the move had been made—as long as Tyrion had his Lords Loyal and he interrogated or dismissed all the staff he hadn’t known since birth, Cersei hopefully couldn’t touch him. And as long as only circumstantial evidence was the only evidence against Cersei’s betrayal, they could hardly touch her as Lady Clifton. His future as Warden of the West it would seem would be to ensure the safety of his brother from the clutches of his sister, a task which Jaime found the idea very disheartening.  
  
A few nights after Lady Felesa had been officially made a Lady Lannister, Jaime found himself late one night sitting with Tyrion and enjoying a cup of wine. His brother it seemed was in a ponderous mood for after ending with a dark-tinted jape, he became all quiet and asked Jaime directly,  
  
“Jaime, would father have ever been proud of what I’ve done?”  
  
“Tyrion…” sighed Jaime.  
  
Tyrion added, “I know he’d still likely consider me a failure because of my birth, I’m not asking to be deluded on that point…”  
  
“Where is this coming from?” asked Jaime, in an attempt to keep some good humor alive.  
  
“He died when I was only nine namedays old. You knew him as a man better than I ever will. Considering all I’ve done… all that I’m going to do to make the Westerlands right… would he have been able to look past my deformities with time? To truly see my achievements?”  
  
 _What to say?_  
  
Jaime answered when it became clear he’d taken too long to speak, “Do you want the truth?”  
  
“That bad hmm?” asked Tyrion with a slight grimace.  
  
Jaime admitted, “Father was rarely satisfied with anyone… I don’t even think he lived up to his own expectations. He always wanted something more from life… for our family… just like Cersei. Even when he had a good thing it always could be better.”  
  
“And I could never I have been better to him?” asked Tyrion with some apparent worry.  
  
Jaime used his cane to rise now, there’d be no use answering that question. With some difficulty he approached his brother and instead of answering him, he patted his brother’s shoulder.  
  
Tyrion emptied his cup and pronounced, “Well, fuck ‘em… fuck ‘em all.”  
  
Jaime could hardly help but snort.


	84. Asha IV

**ASHA**  
  
When it was time to leave for Riverrun, Willem Paege, the sole squire of the late Ser Halmon, decided to leave with the Northmen calvary that had brought the Kingsguard knight to Boarshead Hall. She had sent a raven to Lady Jeyne, saying that as a good and dutiful squire he’d return as soon as he was capable—for as a squire that’s what he felt he ought to do. What Asha wanted to do didn’t rely on rights and duties and honors. Asha wanted at first to curl up into a corner and let the entire rest of the world pass her by for once. She had murdered one of her fellow Ironborn—a friend to her brothers Rodrik and Maron. She felt at war with herself.  
  
 _A friend who’d led the people who’d followed him into nothing but death, disease, and starvation… and talked Rodrik and Maron into early graves._  
  
 _He had blood of Iron!_  
  
 _Aye, and do I anymore?_  
  
It was a question which plagued her now. Before now she’d considered her tenacity to refuse being a complete greenlander and learning the ways of a “lady” were what could keep the salt and iron in her blood. She may have been far from the sea, but she’d forever be a child of the Drowned God this way.  
  
Her attention was brought back to the present by a nudge on her arm. She looked up to see the small child that the northmen had adopted. He’d been the sole survivor of a group of smallfolk rebels that had nearly starved to death. Supposedly the knight that they had brought to Boarshead Hall had been injured saving the child, an act which the Northmen had respected him for and kept the child in his honor with the intention of Lord Ryswell taking the child north to be a stable hand or horse trainer of some kind. The child was six mayhaps seven namedays old—though he was so thin and stunted he looked younger—and didn’t speak whatsoever. He yelled, grunted, and made other such noises when he pleased. He understood language though sometimes he needed a few hints and points to comprehend harder concepts. No one knew what his name was, and most of the northmen simply called him “boy”. The child had taken a liking to Asha however—mayhaps confusing the black hair and dark eyes they shared for familial traits. Sometimes she thought in the firelight that he almost looked something like Theon had… but that was surely her imagination. Other times she worried that he could see through her disguise and knew she wasn’t the boy Willem Paege as she was known to the rest of the Northmen, and that was why he clung to her, like a babe to its mother.  
  
“What do you want?” she spat at the boy, the reflection of the firelight glistening in his eyes, making them appear like speck of burning coals.  
  
The boy’s glance furrowed in that moment as he gave a little kick of his boot to Asha’s foot. It didn’t hurt in the least but she recognized what he meant.  
  
“I don’t care if your little feelings are hurt,” she responded turning away again to stare at the fire.  
  
This time the boy sighed and grabbed her hand to pull her up. She stayed seated. The boy turned and glared at her, giving her a look that almost reminded her of her father when she’d angered him once… long ago. He pulled again, more insistent this time.  
  
“Looks like your little brother wants to play, Willem!” japed Mabon Ryswell, a boy about Edmure’s age, but with an immaturity matching what Theon’s would be. He was irritating to put up with, but he was Lord Rodrik’s nephew.  
  
“At least the siblings that adopt me want to be around me,” she called back. That was something Willem would say to the Ryswell cad. Mabon’s face turned rather red as several of the other Ryswells and their sworn bannermen, Ironsmith and Holts alike, burst into laughter. No doubt it would take Mabon the entire time she would be away with the boy   
  
With a groan she rose and allowed the boy to pull her to wherever he wanted to go through the melting snows of the western Riverlands. Luckily there was some moonlight tonight, unlike previous nights when it had been cloudy, so she could see where he was dragging her.  
  
They came upon a small alcove shaded by four pines nestled amongst their bare-leafed cousins. In the trees perched a flock of ravens which took flight upon their arrival—all except one. The snow was wet and stuck together in odd-shaped clumps. It wasn’t until she got closer that she saw that the clumps were deliberately made into two little walls with a pile of stones behind each. Very quickly Asha understood the object which the boy had drug her over and she loosened her arm from the boy’s grasp.  
  
“I don’t want to play,” she grumbled.  
  
The boy however refused to take no for an answer and with a slight running start jumped onto her back and started smashing his little fists onto her back as he clung to her with his legs.  
  
 _She was younger for a moment, the wind and rain beaten halls of Pyke about her, and Theon was bugging her for not wanting to play with him._  
  
 _‘You promised! You promised!’ he shouted as his tiny fists pounded on her._  
  
 _‘Get off of me you little shit! Theon stop! Stop it!’_  
  
The next instance she felt the boy fall off of her and she was back in the woods.  
  
“Is that his name then?” called a voice to her side and she turned to see Mabon’s elder brother, Ser Mael, standing there with his arms crossed.  
  
“What?” she asked. Her mind was confused for a second as thoughts of Pyke ebbed from her forethoughts.  
  
“Is Theon the name of the boy then?” repeated Mael, with a look of patience that reminded her of Ser Halmon.  
  
 _He acts like my little shit of a brother… why not?_  
  
She turned to the boy who had landed on his back so that he had flattened his snow walls. “Aye… that’s his name, Theon.”  
  
The boy seemed to register that it was he who was being talked about at this point and he went from attempting to try and rebuild his snow walls to looking oddly at her.  
  
 _Better than being called boy for the rest of your life…_  
  
It was then that the lone raven took flight and dove straight for the new little Theon. The raven cawed and pecked at the boy—giving him a rather nastly clip on the face before Asha and Mael could swat the raven away. At this point new Theon had begun to cry as blood began to run down the side of his head and onto his cheek.  
  
 _Fuck he’s crying… what do I do now?_  
  
Whenever Tristifer or Vylott had cried, Asha had usually let Lady Jeyne handle the offended infant. But out here in the wilderness the boy was fucked if he wanted comfort. Willem wouldn’t comfort the boy, and Asha wanted no part in the affair.  
  
Ser Mael in contrast acted quickly, tearing a piece of cloth off his surcoat near the bottom and wadded it up.  
  
“Here, press this against your cheek,” stated Ser Mael firmly but kindly. The boy grabbed the wad of cloth, and Mael stood and turned to her and said “I’ll heat some wine to clean that out. Get him by the fire, Willem.”  
  
Asha nodded dumbly and had the still sniffling and crying little Theon get up and follow her back to the fire. He chose to sit quite close to her on the same log she had sat upon earlier.  
  
“Attacking the boy… _tch tch tch_ , not very knightly behavior there, now is it?” prodded Mabon, who had watched their return with interest. Most of the other Ryswell, Ironsmith, and Holt men had by this point retreated to their pavilions.  
  
Asha would have threatened to give him a scar to match if he was so concerned, but damn Willem would not.  
  
“He doesn’t need me to hurt him when he does such a bloody good job of it himself,” she answered. She then added, “And his name is Theon.”  
  
“But you would hurt him, wouldn’t you?” rounded Mabon. She glared at Mabon.  
  
 _I’d sooner beat your sorry ass with an ax to the head._  
  
“What’s got your horsehair rubbed the wrong way?” challenged Asha, immediately recognizing her mistake as soon as her words had left Willem Paege’s mouth. Willem shouldn’t directly challenge a member of a noble house, not when he was only of a knightly rank. Indirect remarks could be gotten away, but a direct challenge? Fuck.  
  
It was by the luck of the Drowned God that at this point Ser Mael had appeared from his pavilion with a bottle of wine and a tin cup. Mabon grew silent but his glare. Silence remained all the while Ser Mael poured a bit of wine into the cup and placed the tin cup on a rock by the fire. In this time little Theon had managed to grow cold and shiver. He was so close to her she felt his shivers and when she could no longer take it she extended the Paege cloak that she wore and included the new Theon within it. Little Theon took the action to mean he could snuggle up close to Asha, half burying his face against her side. It almost made her gasp for breath as he rubbed his tear-stained cheeks dangerously close to where her bindings to keep her ever growing breasts bound were. A gasp at the wrong moment could send her into another attempt to search for breath and get her discovered—and being discovered by Mabon Ryswell was the last thing she had in mind for he was no Gwydion. At this point Ser Mael had finished his task and then stood up, and gave a knowing look to both Mabon and her before returning to his pavilion.  
  
Once Ser Mael was far enough off from the fire Mabon attempted to goad her once more, saying, “Think you’re funny? I’ll tell you what’s funny. I find it rather funny that a squire like you who’s supposedly from a house that has some knightly manners to it can be as crude as one of the smallfolk… and not far from where we ran into you, we find a smallfolk who could be your little brother.”  
  
 _It could be possible._  
  
After all, she had seen one of her brother’s seed at Boarshead Hall, playing with his half-siblings. She hadn’t interacted with him, for to Willem Paege the boy was nothing, but she’d heard the tale of how his mother had gotten with him all the same. Part of her had wanted to believe he wasn’t her nephew, that Maron and Rodrik wouldn’t have—but then again they were Ironborn, and they took what they wanted.  
  
But running into more than one nephew?   
  
_That’s just unlikely._  
  
Just because it was possible, didn’t make it probable. And besides she wouldn’t have known the one nephew she had met to be hers if it hadn’t been for the gossipy servants who wouldn’t keep quiet.  
  
“And should I think every smallfolk who has dark brown hair and eyes a Ryswell?” she retorted with a snort.  
  
Mabon was undeterred. “If they’re truly from the North, mayhaps. My great uncle Ryley had many Snows, but only one foal.”  
  
Asha attempted to ignore him by prodding little Theon to show her the wound, which he did with a sniffle.   
  
“Besides there’s other features that are all too similar besides the eyes and the hair… there’s the nose, and the shape of your face…”  
  
She continued ignoring him while imagining one of her throwing axes going straight through his head. The bronze colored cloth was stained dark red and the wound only seemed to trickle a small amount of blood now. Asha grimaced at the sight.  
  
“What don’t like the family resemblance, Paege?” japed Mabon.  
  
Unnoticed by them both, Ser Mael had returned, and now made his presence known.  
  
“That’s enough squires. Unless you both want to be sleeping out here by the fire, I suggest you two quit your little pissing contest immediately!” snapped Ser Mael.  
  
Asha did not say anything in response. Willem wouldn’t, no matter how much Asha wanted to protest being lumped in with Mabon’s jibes.  
  
“I was just going to sleep anyway,” grumbled Mabon irritably.  
  
When Mabon had retired to Ser Mael’s tent, Mael then pulled off one of his gloves to check how warm the tin cup had gotten and found it appropriately heated. He picked it up and brought it over to where she and little Theon were sitting.  
  
“Hold him still,” prompted Ser Mael, and Asha moved to hold little Theon in place.  
  
“I’m going to pour some wine to clean the wound so it doesn’t get infected. It’s going to be hot, but it’ won’t last long, all right?” prodded Ser Mael to little Theon.  
  
Asha felt little Theon nod his head and then pull back the bloodied cloth. Ser Mael took a piece of rag cloth and poured some of the wine onto it and began to dab the wine soaked cloth upon the wound. Asha felt the boy twinge slightly, but she held him tight. He didn’t fight after that, and Ser Mael pulled another piece of cloth out and had him hold it to his wound once again until it stopped bleeding.  
  
“There now… that went well, didn’t it?” queried Ser Mael with a slight smile to little Theon. In the firelight, Ser Mael’s dark brown hair took on a reddish hue and for an instant she thought she saw Edmure. She wondered if Edmure might be just as gentle handed with children—like Lady Jeyne was for hers. She dismissed the thought almost as soon as she realized it crossed her mind. He was too hot blooded most of the time.  
  
“The resemblance is remarkable,” commented Ser Mael, his eyes darting between little Theon and her face.  
  
“And completely coincidental,” grumbled Asha as she let go of the boy and tried to distance herself from him. He though clung to her with his free arm until she stood to break all ties from the lad. She strode towards the tent she shared with other squires who’d lost their knights or were excessive. The lad also slept here, often choosing a spot right next to her to sleep. She pulled out a roll of cloth that she’d been given to keep from sleeping on the cold ground between two other squires—hoping that there would be very little room for the boy to pull his usual stunt. She then pulled off her boots and arranged her cloak as her blanket as she laid down on her roll. She’d left part of the roll bunched up near her head to serve as a flattish pillow, and looked forward to when they’d get to Riverrun. Little Theon predictably entered not long thereafter, having given up holding the cloth to his wound, which appeared to have ceased bleeding.  
  
Somehow there was enough space between herself and the squire to her right, allowing the boy to squeeze in tight, nearly touching her. Groggily, she turned in her sleep so her back was to the boy and drifted off not long thereafter. When she awoke she found that she had somehow pulled pulled little Theon in close to her body, finding that they’d used the large cloak as a warm blanket to keep one another warm. For an instant she thought it was actually her Theon she was waking up to see and hold once again, but then reality set in as a perturbed raven cawed from outside the tent, and the illusion was broken. She almost turned her back once again on little Theon, but seeing him sleep decided in that instant to hold him closer and pretend he was family anyway.  
  
Upon arrival at Riverrun, she noticed that there were more men on the battlements than when she had left, and she saw many blackfish banners flying along side the traditional Tully white fish.   
  
As the party entered the courtyard of Riverrun, Asha’s eyes met with Ser Brynden the Blackfish’s almost instantly. She expected to be called out and revealed in front of the entire courtyard. His piercing blue eyes looked at her discerningly all through Lady Jeyne’s welcoming of him to Riverrun until at long last Ser Brynden spoke, “On behalf of my brother, let me thank you Lord Rodrik for bringing home his bannerman’s squire.”  
  
In an instant she looked towards Lady Jeyne, whom she now stood over slightly she noticed, who immediately welcomed her with “It is a trying thing to loose one’s sworn knight, Willem. Come with me, I’ve prepared some rooms for your use.”  
  
Asha couldn’t believe it, but she gave a nod to Ser Mael who had seen to it that little Theon ride in a cart, before following her sworn lady. Once they were out of sight and well ensconced in the castle’s solar, Lady Jeyne let down all pretense and caught Asha off-guard with a rather warm hug.  
  
“Thank the gods you’re safe. When I heard that Ser Halmon was dead and you were missing, I feared I’d sent you to your death! And then when you wrote from Ser Vikary’s hall… you have no idea how thankful I was to your survival… gods, hear me blabbering like a fool…”  
  
Lady Jeyne then wiped at tears that now streamed down her face joyfully.  
  
Asha was still taken aback by just how warmly and readily Lady Jeyne had greeted her. She’d never been this close to her before. Aye the occasional talk every now and then between lessons, but… this?  
  
“Is something wrong, Asha?”  
  
“Say that again…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“My name…my fucking name!” she shouted for joy.  
  
Lady Jeyne’s face stretched into a smirk—revealing a few lines about her mouth that Asha hadn’t noticed before, as she asked coyly, “Tired of being Willem?”  
  
“By the drowned god, I am!” exclaimed Asha almost joyful that it would be over. It would soon all be over.  
  
She then asked, “Is Edmure returned as well? I didn’t see him when I entered…”  
  
At the mention of Edmure’s name, Lady Jeyne’s smile faltered for an instant.  
  
“He isn’t… dead is he?” a panic catching in her throat. The thought of Edmure being dead made her tremble in a terror she’d hardly expected from herself.  
  
“No, no, he isn’t… but, he had to depart Riverrun to pay his respects to certain bannermen who lost sons in the war.”  
  
Asha took as deep of a breath as her bindings would allow her, as she felt her blood slow within her own veins. When she had gotten control of herself she croaked, “Who died?”  
  
Lady Jeyne gave a grim little grin and took her hand in her own and said, “Hendry, Perwyn, and Ronald to be sure. They were killed during a raid on the Stepstones fairly early in the war.”  
  
She repeated in a stunned manner, “Hendry…”   
  
_By the Drowned God… Brynden must be devastated._  
  
“Perwyn…”  
  
 _Who’s going to keep us all from arguing now?_  
  
“And Ronald?”   
  
Ronald… the boy who she’d saved from the creek.   
  
_“The river will wash me away!”_  
  
 _“I’ve got you! Just jump towards me and we’ll pull you in!”_  
  
Why had the Drowned God allowed her to save him then, only for him to die later? But then mayhaps the Drowned God had no use for him, while his Seven washed their hands of him completely…  
  
 _At least he died with a sword in his hands… if that means anything to those fucking capricious gods._  
  
It was then that Ser Brynden joined them in the solar to disturb the dwindling mood. Getting a better look at the old Blackfish, she saw his hair was far more streaked with grey than it had been before he left—mayhaps more grey in it than red. He carried himself still as stoutly as he ever had  
  
“My wife tells me that you didn’t run away but that she instead tasked you with the job of finding the leader of the smallfolk rebellion in the Westerlands and killing him, and that poor Ser Halmon Paege was to keep an eye upon you.”  
  
Asha nodded, to confirm this.  
  
“And did you?” he challenged.  
  
Asha bit her lip and admitted, “Aye…”  
  
“Tell me,” prompted Ser Brynden as he sighed and leaned against the Lord’s desk, and Asha was left to speak openly of her tale. Ser Brynden took it all in, merely nodding or staring at her as she went from point to point of how she came to kill Farran. She even told them of Farran’s identity.  
  
“So the Ironborn were behind the rebellion then?” asked Ser Brynden.  
  
Asha admitted, “Farran was Ironborn… but most thought he’d died along with my brothers and uncles…”  
  
“Gods know how many more there are like him in the west, under assumed names, plotting gods know what…”  
  
“Then why didn’t they get the Islands involved then?”  
  
“From what I’ve accounted from speaking with Prince Oberyn in the capital, everyone underestimated the ability of your uncle, Lord Harlaw to make life better for the Ironborn. Only the hardcore fanatics who got themselves killed or exiled in the last rebellion still cling to the hopes of your late father’s. Your uncle apparently has made life more bearable under the reign of the Storm God made Flesh, as they like to refer his grace.”  
  
Asha smiled slightly, she was glad to hear that nuncle Rodrik was doing so well and that he’d kept the Iron Isles out from yet another foolish rebellion.  
  
Ser Brynden then added, half to himself, “May your uncle pass his abilities on to your brother when the time comes.”  
  
It was then that a servant notifying them that the evening meal was fast approaching, that Ser Brynden said that they’d speak more after the meal was done.  
  
For the entire meal, Asha once again was forced back into the role of Willem Paege. She sat at the lower table while Lord Rodrik feasted with Lady Jeyne, Ser Brynden and their eldest two children, Vylott and Tristifer—both of whom had grown quite a bit since she’d seen them last. Sometime during the meal Little Theon broke away from his bowl and seat on the floor of the Hall and bothered her to show that his wound was healing. It was then that Asha knew she would have to talk to little Theon on her own. Rising from the table, she then took little Theon to the edge of the hall to speak with him.  
  
“We’ll be parting ways soon,” she prompted. Little Theon neither shook his head nor nodded to show he understood her, so she had him look up at her.  
  
She pointed to herself and then pointed to the ground as she said, “I will stay here.”  
  
She then pointed to Little Theon and then pointed to Ser Mael, “You will go with him.”  
  
At this, Little Theon shook his head, pointed at himself and then at her while staring at her.  
  
Asha shook her head, and repeated once again that he was to go with Ser Mael. This time Little Theon’s eyes narrowed, he stomped his foot and stalked off moodily back to his discarded bowl on the edge of the hall, most likely to resume eating. Asha though, had lost what appetite she had had, and decided to turn in for the night. Little Theon would not suffer to be near her for the rest of Lord Ryswell’s visit. On the following morn Lord Ryswell and his bannermen left Riverrun, with a stubborn Little Theon in tow. Watching them depart made Asha feel as though she were seeing Pyke grow smaller as she sailed for the greenlands once again. Feeling a pent up rage she had long stored while traveling with Mabon Ryswell wishing to be released, she thought immediately of the practice yard and expended herself throwing knives and axes at targets. She felt far better when the log targets were full of axes and knives. It was then that a servant called her to the Lord’s solar once again. She found Ser Brynden there alone.  
  
“You wanted to speak with me?” she grunted.  
  
“Aye… take a seat. I wanted to speak with you in private before my wife joins us to tell you something I think you deserve to hear from me.”  
  
“Is it about how Hendry, Perwyn, and… Ronald died?” she asked as she perched herself on the offered chair.  
  
After a seemingly difficult silence, Ser Brynden responded, “It touches upon that slightly.”  
  
And then he told her all that she needed to know. They had been tasked with taking the stepstone that her uncle Euron had claimed as his own.  
  
“Your uncle was found to be behind the pirate raids… he took the prisoners from Bear Island and sold them into slavery.”  
  
Asha was surprised to hear this. She had barely known her uncle Euron—mother had always kept her from him as often as she could—but for an Ironborn to sell prisoners to slavers and waste good thralls… that was upsetting to say the least. Nuncle Aeron had once told her that while a thrall was many things an Ironborn wasn’t—at least it wasn’t a _slave_.  
  
Ser Brynden continued, “Further, after we took the island in surprise he made his escape hacking through my squires specifically. He personally killed Ronald and likely Hendry as well.”  
  
Asha felt a chill run down her spine in that moment. It hadn’t been the capricious Seven at all that had forsaken Ronald that day… but the Drowned God himself!   
  
_No… he wouldn’t have… the drowned god would’ve taken Ronald at the river if he was to take him at all…_  
  
 _But then, what kind of Ironborn spurns thralls for slaves?_  
  
It was then she noticed Ser Brynden staring at her, specifically her arm which was clenched in a fist and shaking.  
  
“Adding in what you’ve told me, it seems that your uncle had been planning to divide Westeros’ attention so that your kinsmen could invade… simply taking for granted that they would.”  
  
“That sounds like the kind of strategy he’d make,” added Asha, though she was only guessing.  
  
Ser Brynden met her eyes and rather bluntly stated, “What you should know, Asha, is that I killed him. In a battle he boarded our ship, took Edmure by the throat, and when he couldn’t get what he wanted from us I fought him and killed him. For your sake, I dumped body overboard—knowing how fond your kinsmen are for seeing your bodies out to sea—but for your sake alone did I do that.”  
  
In that instant Asha began to breathe heavily as her thoughts raced at this admission. His eyes had for not one instant wavered from her own. It was the truth, unvarnished though it may be, it was the truth. Confusion, and anger were the first things to spring forth. But anger with who? Ser Brynden… her uncle? Lord Tully for holding her hostage under the guise of a wardship. The King for splitting her and Theon apart? Her father, for his idiotic rebellion in the first place? Her brothers for listening to foolish Farran? Who could she be angry with? She did not know, and that only brought with it frustration practically unbearable.  
  
“You deserved to hear that from me,” added Ser Brynden.  
  
Another nuncle dead… now her father’s family all were… except for Theon. Theon!  
  
“Has my brother been told?” queried Asha.  
  
“A raven was sent… more than that I cannot say.”  
  
Her breaths were growing more ragged now.  
  
“I want to see my brother…” she demanded.  
  
“That, I’m afraid, isn’t up to me, but my bloody fool-hardy brother.”  
  
Asha snorted, of course it would be that way. And then she could hardly keep it back anymore and so she lashed out, pounding her fist against the desk. He breathing now was heavy as well as ragged. All sense of whoever else was in the room seemed to fade from view as all that mattered was getting out this anger.  
  
“Yell,” someone urged her.  
  
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Asha shouted back; she then continued to pound the desk, her chair—anything within arm’s reach of her. It wasn’t until it registered to her brain that she could hardly feel her hands anymore that she slowed down and stared at her hands. They were bruised and a bit bloody, and now that she stared at them the numbing pain she’d ignored hit her like an unsuspecting wave cresting over a ship’s deck. She then noticed that _he_ was still there. As her black eyes met his watery blue eyes, she couldn’t help but be amazed. Her breathing was slowing now, and she was beginning to think once again, through the pain.  
  
“You didn’t leave…”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
And for some reason she couldn’t explain to herself she closed the gap between them, threw her arms about Ser Brynden and let herself for the first time in a very long time cry—practically sobbing into his shoulder. For his part Ser Brynden didn’t ruin the damn moment by saying anything unnecessary, simly quietly holding her in that instant, that one moment. As her mind cleared some more and she re-gained some more of her control, a thought occurred to her and she pulled back to look Ser Brynden in the eye, as she asked, “What if I’d hit you?”  
  
It was now Ser Brynden’s turn to snort, as he replied rather quietly, “I’m not so old that I couldn’t have handled you if it came down to it. Besides if you’d wanted to hit me, you would have done that at the start.”  
  
She snorted and returned to her hold of Ser Brynden. Her hands were too weak to grip him herself, so she used the muscles in her arms to do the majority of the work.  
  
They remained that way for what might have been a moment an hour… she didn’t know. They only broke contact when a knock was heard at the door. Not a moment later Lady Jeyne and a servant carrying a trunk entered the solar.  
  
“Is everything all right in here? The guards were—Asha! By the Seven, what have you done to your hands?!”  
  
In the next instant Ser Brynden’s wife was grabbing at Asha’s hands and examining them, causing Asha to realize just how flexing them was causing her a great deal of pain which now was aching up her arms.  
  
“She roughed her hands up a bit, Jeyne, let the girl be, she’ll see the maester about it soon enough,” dismissed Ser Brynden.  
  
“How’d she rough up her hands? Punching a stone,” retorted Lady Jeyne.  
  
“Is there any blood on the stones you see about you?”  
  
Lady Jeyne rolled her eyes and then turned to the servant who had just placed the trunk upon the desk and with a determined look and she sent the servant on his way to collect the master at once.  
  
Once the door was shut, Ser Brynden then went over to it and locked it from inside.  
  
“How’s the maester going to come if you have the door locked?” challenged Lady Jeyne.  
  
“We have a more important matter to discuss,” replied Ser Brynden as the then crossed the solar once again to the desk, and pulled out another key to unlock the trunk.  
  
“Like what? Did someone else die?” interjected Asha bitterly.  
  
“Now’s not the time to play what’s in the trunk, Brynden,” tutted Lady Jeyne.  
  
As the lock on the trunk clicked, Ser Brynden retorted, “Oh quit overreacting. She’s survived the Westerlands during a smallfolk rebellion—on your orders, I’ll remind you—she’ll survive this.”  
  
“Of course she’ll survive! What I’m worried about is if she’ll use her hands afterwards.”  
  
As he flipped open the lid, Ser Brynden added, “I’ve beaten and bloodied my hands up enough times, it’s nothing to throw a fit over.”  
  
Lady Jeyne scoffed and rolled her eyes once again.  
  
Before the argument could continue any further, Asha then interrupted asking, “What’s so bloody important?”  
  
Ser Brynden hesitated opening the lid of the trunk, saying, “There is one thing Euron Greyjoy was insistent upon having—it’s why he attacked Edmure in the first place.”  
  
“Quit dragging it out, Brynden, and show this damn thing already,” grumbled Lady Jeyne, and Ser Brynden cast his wife a knowing look before complying. He lifted the lid to reveal an egg inside the dark wooden chest. The egg was scaly, with shimmering green and blue wave patterns upon it. But what was most extraordinary about it was how shiny and wet the eg looked—though the box itself was dry as fresh kindling. Asha stared at the egg in awe. She felt a chill travel down her spine. Seeing the egg, she felt as though it shouldn’t exist at all. It was an abomination—a tool of the Storm God to plague the world with destruction. Though she couldn’t immediately recall how she knew this fact. But then, slowly the memory seemed to bubble up from whatever dark corner of her mind it had hidden in.  
  
 _“In the beginningall was water… and then from out of the darkest depths of the sea, the Storm God stole the largest egg of the sea dragons. An egg which never dried… From that egg came Nagga, scourge of the oceans, and terror of all who sail… and it was with Nagga the Storm God hoped to bring an end to the Drowned God and all who followed him…”_  
  
“Asha?” queried Lady Jeyne, bringing her back to the solar. Ser Brynden and Lady Jeyne looked at her oddly, as if they couldn’t feel the evil presence within the very room coming from that egg. Asha strode forward and immediately shut the trunk lid closed, ignoring the new wave of pain which emanated from her hand.  
  
“We need to keep that egg from hating!” proclaimed Asha.  
  
“Can it still hatch?!” asked Lady Jeyne.  
  
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out if it can.”  
  
“Asha,” intoned Ser Brynden with a meaningful glance.  
  
She knew what he wanted… and there was no escaping it now.  
  
“That’s a sea dragon egg… like the one Nagga hatched from. A sea dragon is a terror to all who sail—Ironborn and Greenlander alike. If my nuncle wanted this, he was no true son of the Grey King.”  
  
Ser Brynden and Lady Jeyne seemed rather strained to believe what they were hearing from Asha, but they were agreeable enough to say that the egg would be locked away in the trunk for the nonce until a better plan with what to do with it could be devised. Asha hoped for all their sakes the old legends of sea dragons were only exaggerating Nagga’s size.  
  
Maester Vyman tutted about her hands, bound them and told her she would need to soak them daily in a special salve he’d prepare each day for a moon at least. For the next moon and a half she did as he said, spending a good two hours soaking her hands in a milky white liquid that was brought to her room and having them re-bandaged afterwards. Her hands had swollen slight but the salve thankfully eased that with its cool liquid paste texture. The only problem was she was restricted in what she could do for that moon and a half, only allowed to use her hands in the most important of situations such as feeding herself and so forth. She was told her hands needed to rest, and Asha felt like a bloody idiot as the days passed and she felt time simply slip away. Thankfully Lady Jeyne and Ser Brynden seemed to sense this as they permitted Vylott and Tristifer to visit her or for her to accompany them outside for walks about the castle and such. The two children might not be the best of company, but in the absence of Ser Brynden's squires, they filled a void of companionship she hadn't felt as acutely until now.   
  
Vylott was now six namedays old and rather vocal about what she had to say, constantly talking and asking questions. Within a few days she had managed to weasel out of Asha a good portion of what had happened to her in the Westerlands… well, a heavily edited version at least.  
  
“It sounds just like a song! Asha, do you think they’ll write a song about you?” prompted the girl on one of their walks.  
  
“I doubt it.”  
  
“Oh but they should! I mean it sounds so exciting! Traveling in disguise, serving a brave and valiant knight, fighting rebels—if no one else writes a song, Asha I’ll write one about you.”  
  
“Of course you will.”  
  
“I will! Momma is teaching me the high harp… I’m not very good now… and I only play a little one, but I’ll get better, and when I do, I’ll write you a song if some minstrel fails to do his duty.”  
  
Asha almost laughed at how determined the little girl was to see Asha thus honored and so held her tongue, less she betray her treating the subject lighter than the girl wished to. She turned to her other side to see that her four nameday old brother, Tristifer, had at some point slipped away… again. Knowing where he’d gone the last few times she had them turn around and march straight for the side of the Maester’s tower, and sure enough she found him attempting to scale the damn thing, failing to find a proper foot hold a few feet off the ground and unceremoniously falling onto his bottom when he lost his balance.  
  
“Shit,” said the boy. Asha was startled he knew what the word meant.  
  
“You know momma told you not to climb, and you shouldn’t say that bad word!” scolded  
  
Tristifer responded with an annoyed sigh and sticking his tongue out at his elder sister, if he had known how to roll his eyes, he likely would have done that as well, Asha figured.  
  
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll tell momma you were being bad, Tris, I will!” warned Vylott.  
  
“Shit…” replied the boy who once again looked up at the tower.  
  
“What do you want up there?” asked Asha, seeing that judgment wouldn’t work.  
  
“He’s always getting into things.”  
  
The boy gave her the discerning Tully stare, reminding Asha in that moment just how much he was a younger Ser Brynden before deciding she was sincere. He then pointed up and said with a rather broken tongue, “Nest up there. I wanna see it!”  
  
Asha looked up to see halfway up the tower was a bird’s nest situated on a ledge of a window sill.  
  
“You don’t need to climb up the tower to see that,” countered Asha, and she motioned for him to follow her. Together they all climbed the steps to the window where the bird’s nest was perched. The window was rather high up for Vylott—let alone Tristifer, so Asha had to pick him up to show him the nest he wanted to see. And after seeing the nest and commenting at how blue the eggs were he immediately scurried off to do something else entirely once he was put down.  
  
Eating at meals became a tougher challenge in some regards. Mostly Asha resorted to eating things off of a knife as it was easier to hold a grip around that than hold individual utensils. This had prompted Tristifer to attempt the very same—much to the displeasure of his mother, but she didn’t say anything for the nonce.  
  
One evening Maester Vyman came hurrying into the Great Hall late for the evening meal with a missive from Lord Tully in King’s Landing. Lord Tully was busy dealing with matters due to the death of some septon or other. Truthfully, Asha didn’t understand what the commotion was all about, but she what she knew was that it kept Edmure’s father from returning to meet his new niece, Celia who was fast approaching her first nameday. She was named for an aunt of Ser Brynden’s who had been spurned by a Targaryen—or so Asha had been told. The youngest blackfish was still attached to her mother’s teat, and thus was not present for the meal, thank the Drowned God.  
  
Ser Brynden urged for Maester Vyman to take a seat before opening the missive sent by his brother and liege lord.  
  
“Is uncle coming to Riverrun?” pestered Vylott, who was eager to meet her Lord Tully.  
  
“Vylott, keep quiet and let your father read,” urged her mother.  
  
“But—”  
  
“Godsdamn him!” roared Ser Brynden suddenly.  
  
“Brynden!” scolded Lady Jeyne.  
  
“Godsdamn!” echoed Tristifer who was eager to pick up a new curse word immediately. He pounded his fists onto the table as he did, mirroring his father's action.  
  
Lady Jeyne groaned, “Now look what you’ve started! And I just got him to stop saying S—H—I—T…”  
  
“My apologies; but godsdamn my bloody brother!” pronounced Ser Brynden as he slammed the missive down onto the table.  
  
“Godsdamn!”  
  
Lady Jeyne gave Ser Brynden a withering glare. The rest of the servants at the lower tables looked up with curiosity.  
  
Ser Brynden dismissed her with, “The dam’s already burst, Jeyne. We can’t hold back a flood with our hands only.”  
  
“Especially when there’s a black trout on the other side hacking away at it,” quipped Lady Jeyne quietly before sighing and then loudly she asked, “What has your brother, the _Lord_ of this castle, done to warrant such a response, husband?”  
  
Ser Brynden groaned before standing up to announce to the entire hall of servants and castlefolk, “My brother has married Princess Elia Nymeros Martell Targaryen.”  
  
At this announcement the entire lower part of the hall burst into excited chatter at the announcement of a new Lady Tully.  
  
“Does this mean I have an aunt?” questioned Vylott the moment Ser Brynden returned to his seat.  
  
“Aye, it does,” confirmed Ser Brynden as he rubbed his hand over his face and then through his red and grey hair.  
  
“I thought that he was only meeting with her to arrange a betrothal between Edmure and her niece?” questioned Lady Jeyne.  
  
“He must have arranged Edmure’s match and agreed upon another for himself to seal the deal. He writes to say that a _great affection_ for the Princess brought him to propose marriage. That’s bloody likely…” scoffed Ser Brynden.  
  
Asha’s grip on her fork slipped, causing it to fall and clatter onto the plate upon hearing this news.   
  
_Edmure is betrothed?!_  
  
“Godsdamn it!” interjected Tristifer slyly.  
  
“That’s not how you hold a fork, Asha,” corrected Vylott good-intentionally as she displayed the correct way to rest a fork between her pointer and middle fingers, allowing the rest of the handle to lie back onto the crook between her thumb and pointer finger. It was hardly lost on Asha that she was making sure to do this in clear view of her mother and father.  
  
“No… of course not…” answered Asha, resisting the urge to roll her eyes—as if table manners mattered when such news as Edmure’s betrothal was being discussed.  
  
But why did it matter to her who Edmure married? After all he was a greenlander lordling—he was supposed to marry some greenlander lady who’d hold her fork properly, spoke properly, and didn’t go around pretending to be a squire for months on end. After all, how else would a niece of a Princess behave?  
  
It was then that Asha noticed that Lady Jeyne was giving her a sympathetic look which Asha was ashamed she felt comforted by.  
  
“Godsdamn it!”  
  
Lady Jeyne gave an aggravated sigh and turned to her son and chastised him with, “Tristifer, for the Seven’s sake hold your tongue!”  
  
The toddler seemed abashed for an instant until a second later when he stuck his tongue out and grabbed a hold of it with his hand, all the while laughing.  
  
Ser Brynden responded to this act almost immediately standing up himself and walking calmly to stand over his young son.  
  
“Let go of your tongue and apologize to your mother, Tris,” urged Ser Brynden with a look that seemed to threaten that worse things could happen if he didn’t.  
  
Tristifer however was in an obstinate mood and simply shook his head, resolutely holding onto his tongue. Ser Brynden in the next instant gave his son a clout to his ear and the boy let go of his tongue to shout “Ow!”  
  
Asha expected more blows to follow that one, like her father used to give to Theon when he’d acted just as badly, but Ser Brynden apparently was quite lenient and thought the one would do the trick… and to her surprise it had, as Tristifer looked shame faced then as the entire hall—the attention of which had been garnered by the sound of the smack—looked upon him with rather disapproving looks.   
  
Soon enough attention shifted away from the disobedient little boy and the hall returned to their own conversations. At the head table Lady Jeyne directed this course of action with a tactful prompting to Ser Brynden, “Is that all your brother mentions in his letter?”  
  
Ser Brynden by this point returned to his seat and began spearing his venison. He replied as he tore it with his knife, saying, “No… he talked about a new plan he had about Oldstones but not all of it is appropriate for this table.”  
  
With a look to Vylott and Tristifer both husband and wife understood one another.  
  
After the meal was finished, Ser Brynden asked if Asha would walk with him out amongst the battlements. While the days were growing warmer, the nights were still rather chilly, with a wind that could blow right through a cloak. They walked along the battlements in silence for a while until they came to one of the longer abandoned stretches between two guards' towers. At which Ser Brynden stopped and looked out over the view of the merging of the Tumblestone and Red Fork.  
  
“Did you tell Lord Tully of the egg?” questioned Asha, when the silence seemed   
  
Ser Brynden nodded and then added “I also informed him about your recent squiring for Ser Halmon. He had a lot to say on the subject, you can imagine…”   
  
“Additionally, he has received an offer marriage for you from Lord Jason Mallister for Patrek.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
 _Patrek?!_  
  
The wind calmed in this moment, at least near the battlement—while further off in the distance Asha saw a few of the bare trees’ limbs twist with the wind.  
  
Ser Brynden grumbled, “Apparently marrying the Princess has put him in the mood to be a bloody matchmaker again.”  
  
“I… I can’t marry Patrek!”  
  
“Then don’t. I won’t force you… though don’t be surprised if my brother, Patrek, and his father arrive through those gates one day with different ideas.”  
  
She rounded, “Is that why you married Lady Jeyne? Because Lord Tully wanted you to?”  
  
“My brother would tell you that I married to secure a political alliance to heal the division in the Riverlands after the rebellion… as if such damn things have a place in a bloody complicated relationship as it is. The truth is I chose to marry her as an honor to her grandfather, Lord Tristifer Darry. I squired for and highly admired the man—taught me more about tracking and sneaking about a battlefield than Hoster was ever comfortable with. When it became obvious that I needed to marry… it seemed the only choice I could make and not play the damn game of thrones.”  
  
“Game of thrones?” asked Asha incredulously.  
  
Ser Brynden smirked and replied, “It’s what I like to call the bloody nonsense the rest of the damn noble houses do to achieve power. It’s one thing to get your power through the sword. A man can respect a bloody sword—but the idiocy nobles make about marriages and alliances when they don’t have the skill at arms is a damn waste of time, and a bloody mess for all involved. What kind of marriage can come when it’s really about the daughter’s title to some bloody farmland or water rights to a river or a gold mine or whatever her dowry is? Honor and respect are better things to found a marriage upon.”  
  
 _The gold price never lasts…_  
  
“Or when it’s in exchange for her father’s soldiers?” questioned Asha purposefully, recalling how Edmure’s sisters had been married off.  
  
Ser Brynden’s frown grew at that, “Stark at least showed he was honorable, even if he wasn’t happy to wed Cat... I argued with Hoster over Lord Arryn… he was far too old a man to sell Lysa to, but Hoster was insistent about the bloody thing.”  
  
  
“Since my younger brother’s my liege, why can’t I choose whom I want to marry then if he can’t?”  
  
“I’m afraid since Hoster took you in, that he has prerogative over who you marry until your brother is of age.”  
  
“And if I don’t want to marry Patrek?”  
  
“Why don’t you want to marry him?”  
  
“He’s… he’s…”  
  
“He’s not Edmure?”  
  
 _Why would he think that?_  
  
“What? No, it’s not that…”  
  
Ser Brynden merely gave Asha an expectant look.  
  
“I mean, I’m not some bloody princess for him to marry.”  
  
“No you’re not, and I don’t think he’d be happy with just some bloody princess… but then again happiness in my brother’s kind of marriage is unlikely at best.”  
  
The wind began to pick up once more and Asha tightened her hold on her cloak, wincing at the pain that shot through her hands as she did, to try and guard against the sudden chill that went up her spine. Shivering slightly, she asked, “What do I do?”  
  
With a wry smile, Ser Brynden said, “I think it all comes down to if you’re your father’s daughter or not.”  
  
Asha’s eyes narrowed, “You mean if I’m a fool or not?”  
  
Ser Brynden snorted, shook his head and answered, “I didn’t say _that_ at all.”  
  
And he left her there confused as to his meaning as the wind blew about her.  
  
 _What else could he have meant from a greenlander’s perspective?_  
  
 _When did he know my father? Never._  
  
 _Ser Brynden must be getting old… and it’s too bloody cold up here to think._  
  
Slowly her hands began to heal, grabbing and holding things with them became less painful. Nearly a moon after learning of Lord Tully’s unexpected marriage a party bearing the Tully banners was caught sight of by some of the guards coming up the River Road from the east. Upon first hearing this, Asha expected the news of Lord Tully’s arrival to bring with it news of Mallister banners, and so Asha ducked into the godswood to gather her thoughts on what to say to poor Patrek.   
  
Nothing formal has been bloody agreed to, Ser Brynden simply said that the offer had been made, not that it had been accepted without her thoughts considered on the matter. After all she’d be the one married off.  
  
If it were anyone but Patrek she might have considered gutting him with a knife… thinking that brought back memories to before Edmure had left for King’s Landing, and the conversation she had had with Patrek played out in her mind once again.  
  
 _“If you continue to distract me, this knife just might go flying from my hand…”_  
  
 _“You’d never hurt me.”  
  
“I wouldn’t, would I?”   
  
“No, you wouldn’t.”  
  
“You’re right… at least, I wouldn’t on purpose.”_  
  
Oh how her words now mocked her.  
  
When the trumpets announced the arrival of the party, Asha was torn between running immediately to the courtyard or taking one extra moment to try and collect herself.  
  
 _What am I a frightened greenlander maid who can’t bloody face a bloke without fainting?_  
  
That got her motivated to leave the godswood at last. When she came to its gates she saw out in the courtyard the arrival of the horses and the banners they flew. To her surprise she saw not the aged Lord Tully with what she expected was some dark-skinned Dornish wife, but instead she saw a multitude of Riverlords banners in addition to the Tully one. There was Vance, Goodbrook, Mooton, Blackwood, Bracken, Piper, Mallister—gods the riders returning were Ser Brynden’s squires—well, knights, as Asha recalled Ser Brynden mentioning that due to their actions at war he’d knighted them all. And accompanying them was a lady dressed in Bracken clothes—one of Hendry’s cousins—whom Brynden Blackwood took careful attention over. But the person who had drawn her attention the quickest was a young man dressed in Tully colors with wavy auburn hair and a thin beard to match. He was now medium height and broad shouldered.   
  
_Edmure has returned!_  
  
She felt immediate joy and moved to leave the godswood, only to have a wave of despair hit her upon realizing a question that she’d avoided considering for nearly the last moon.  
  
 _What if he wants to speak about his betrothed?_  
  
So she continued to watch from the gate of the godswood as the knights she’d grown up with as brothers dismounted and greeted Ser Brynden quite gladly. Upon seeing them, she realized just how much she had missed them and their playful mirth about the castle. They actually were brothers to her in one sense of the word—even if it wasn’t by blood. They hardly looked like the boys she’d seen leaving Riverrun… not even Patrek—by the drowned god, he had the beginnings of a beard too! It was then that she noticed a small boy, likely only just ten namedays or so, dressed in Frey banners, appear and present himself to Ser Brynden. Edmure patted the boy upon his back, and Asha heard a general laugh from amongst the newly minted knights reach her ears.  
  
“But where is Asha?” called out Edmure.  
  
At the sound of her name, Asha immediately ducked behind a nearby wall.  
  
 _Coward it is then?_  
  
 _Oh shut the fuck up._  
  
Keeping out of sight, Asha trudged deeper into the Godswood, looking to find a spot along the riverbank to sit and berate herself for her cowardice. She found one in the form of a rather large rock which she perched herself upon in a squatting position. There was just something soothing about the small runoff of the Tumblestone that had been diverted to flow through the godswood. Despite her best attempts she couldn’t help but think of Edmure. In the three years since he’d left Riverrun, he’d definitely become a man grown.  
  
Her mind was brought back to the present by the sound of a twig snapping, and she turned to see the very man who curse  
  
She smiled and said, “You’ve returned…”  
  
 _Fucking hell? That’s what you have to say?_  
  
For some reason Edmure seemed rather nervous as he said, “Aye… of course I would… after all this will be my castle one day… I, uh… was wondering where you were.”  
  
“I didn’t hear the trumpets,” she lied.  
  
 _Well at least you haven’t gone soft on that._  
  
“I heard of your squiring with Ser Halmon,” he mentioned somewhat less awkwardly.  
  
She nodded her head in confirmation, before daring to look up at his Tully blue eyes.  
  
He admitted, “I was shocked when I heard it, but when I thought on it again… it seemed like something you would do. When I heard it it gave me hope that…”  
  
“That?” she challenged when he had failed after several moments to finish his thought.  
  
“That you actually did like it here in Riverrun.”  
 _  
That's an odd thing to think..._  
  
“I like it well enough,” she admitted.  
  
“Well… good.”  
  
A long drawn out silence then fell between them.  
  
“Was Tristan’s wedding delayed again?” she asked when she couldn’t stand the silence any longer.  
  
“No… it went off as planned… until someone got murdered.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
Edmure seemed a bit more at ease talking about this subject for whatever reason, as he said, “The Essosi woman Ser Oswell Whent took as a wife in exile. I had to travel to King’s Landing to speak with Prince Oberyn Martell about it.”  
  
She heard very little beyond that he had spoken with the Martell Prince.  
  
“You had to?” she queried.  
  
 _By the Drowned God… it is true.  
_  
“Aye… it turned out that she was one of the Prince’s former lovers and the mother of one of his sons… I made a friend of the son and felt obligated for his sake to accompany him back to King’s Landing—he seemed so distraught about the whole thing. Apparently he hadn’t known she was there at all… To think he found his mother once again only to lose her… gods help him..."  
  
 _And he is a friend who will soon by marriage be your cousin._  
  
“And you thought it your bloody duty and the honorable thing to do no doubt,” she scoffed before adding, “a true Tully, through and through.”  
  
She stood now, and stretched, feeling a bit cramped from having squatted for so long, as she did, she couldn’t help but notice Edmure’s eyes widen at seeing her.  
  
 _What’s got him all agog?_  
  
She broke the silence with, “I imagine you spoke with your father in King’s Landing.”  
  
Edmure seemed to recover the next instant with a blink of he eyes and a slight shake of his head, as he admitted, “Aye… I did.”  
  
“And I assume you were at his wedding then?” questioned Asha.  
  
Edmure nodded. “I arrived just in time for it, actually…”  
  
“Ser Brynden was swearing up a storm when he found out.”  
  
“He would…” laughed Edmure, and the next instant he seemed to grow slightly quiet, “he also told me something else about a betrothal…”  
  
She stared at Edmure in silence and gulped down the excess saliva that had collected in her mouth. His eyes looked up at her now almost timidly, like the boy who had once dove into the Tumblestone and looked up to her as he leaned against the rock she had sat upon.  
  
 _Oh fuck no…_  
  
Asha jumped off the rock at this and spoke as she turned away, as if not looking at him might help her say what she had to.  
  
“Please, don’t!” she insisted.  
  
A long silence was drawn out after this before she heard him reply, “Is it that simple then? I have no chance at all?”  
  
 ** _You_** _have no chance?_  
  
“What?” she asked.  
  
But Edmure apparently wasn’t speaking to her so much anymore as he continued, “Of course not… you’ve been kept here like a hostage… you’d want to get away and see the sea again…”  
  
“What are you going on about?” she asked.  
  
But Edmure did not listen, as he finished his little rant with “If it was anyone else, I’d challenge them. I would… I… I hope you’re happy at Seaguard.”  
  
He then turned and began to walk off, looking somewhat defeated.  
  
 _What the bloody hell?_  
  
She watched him leave in stunned silence before her mind caught up to what Edmure had been saying. Immediately Asha felt all the worries she had wound herself up in knots over seem to untangle themselves instantly—as though some hidden rope end had been found, pulled and revealed like a mooring hitch that the knots were far easier untied than they appeared at first glance. And in that instant she was faced with a dilemma, one which seemed so easily solved. She was an Ironborn after all… and an Ironborn takes what they want. She wanted Edmure Tully, and if she let him leave the godswood she’d likely never get him.  
  
So she hurried after Edmure, who wasn’t so hard to catch, further down the stream. She immediately blocked his path.  
  
“Asha—what?”  
  
She punched him in the gut, enough to cause him to flinch but not too hard to send him to his knees.  
  
“What in the name… of the Seven Hells… was that for?” coughed Edmure.  
  
“For deciding what I’d prefer for me without listening to what I have to say,” she retorted.  
  
He looked at her with a bit of confusion as he began to recover.  
  
“You’ve got my… bloody attention,” he responded.  
  
She gave him her answer by tackling him, her mouth meeting his. The next instant they were both soaked as she had toppled him over and caused them to fall right into the shallow runoff of the Tumblestone.  
  
She immediately backed off, scared that he might have swallowed a breath of water instead of air.  
  
“You’re not marrying Patrek?” he asked when he’d recovered.  
  
She shook her head, and then added, “I’m paying the Iron price for you.”  
  
“Then why’d you stop?” he asked with an impish grin. She pushed him over for that, soaking them both even further.   
  
They spent what was likely several more minutes kissing in the damn river before the wind picked up and caused them both to shiver.  
  
The rest of Ser Brynden’s knights were happy to see her again and embraced her as a sister they had not seen for many a year. All except Patrek, who seemed to share some silent discourse with Edmure by their eyes alone. Not liking the tension it was causing Asha asked to speak to Patrek alone.   
  
“Don’t stay out here too long… it’s too fucking cold,” murmured Edmure before he took his leave.  
  
“I’ll take as long as it needs,” she retorted with a meaningful look.  
  
And so she took a stroll about the courtyard, which had died down in activity with the departure of the rest of the knights, with Patrek. In the immediate silence that came afterwards, it suddenly dawned upon Asha that with Edmure’s affections secured, it seemed a task far less daunting than it had before. He had grown slightly taller than her in the time since he’d left for war, now looking over her by an inch or so.  
  
Patrek was the first to break the silence, “You chose him then?”  
  
“Aye,” she answered, figuring only the barest honesty would work.  
  
Patrek nodded and then said, “Edmure and I had an agreement along the way here… no matter betrothals whoever you chose… you chose.”  
  
“You had an agreement?”  
  
“Despite me wanting it, I had no part in arranging the betrothal… and I only heard of my father’s offer after Edmure swore he wanted to marry you.”  
  
“And you didn’t want to give up the chance then, when you had it?” she asked, seeing it perfectly clear.  
  
“No, I didn’t.” He paused for a moment before continuing with a bit more of an edge to his voice, “I’ve loved you for a very long time, Asha…”  
  
“I know…”  
  
He smiled ruefully, and despite his best effort to remain composed, she caught a single tear escape his eye, “I figured… and that’s why I thought you might choose me… because you said you’d never hurt me…”  
  
She reminded him, “Not on purpose…”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you remind me of Theon…”  
  
A breeze blew in that instant. He almost snorted, but it could have been him trying to swallow a sob instead. In either case he turned from her and said, “Go inside, you’re fucking shaking.”  
  
Before she left him she gave Patrek a hug, which he accepted for a moment before the breeze returned and chased her inside of the keep.  
  
When she had changed into a dry doublet and pants that Lady Jeyne had made to fit her and her growing breasts she left her room to find Edmure. She did not find him in the Great Hall, which was occupied by most of her knightly brothers. It felt rude to leave them so soon after they had arrived so she accepted that her search for Edmure would be a bit delayed for the nonce. The youngest boy apparently was Edmure’s first squire, Olyvar Frey—Perwyn’s full-blooded brother. Looking at him, she saw much of the elder Frey in Olyvar, which made her smile ruefully. Liam and Lymond were obsessed with trying to figure out who had murdered the Whent lady at Tristan’s wedding—arguing over potential murderers.  
  
“Didn’t they find who did it?” asked Asha.  
  
“That’s the thing---no one could have possibly done it as everyone was accounted for in the Great Hall or in the bedding ceremony,” answered Lymond.  
  
“Except for Ser Wode—she spurned his offer to marry her. It would only make sense,” urged Liam  
  
Marq and Hugo were busy trying to drink each other under the table, though both welcomed her to attempt to keep up with them when she appeared. After slogging back more than a bit of ale, she then moved to Brynden Blackwood, who introduced Lady Barbara Bracken to her as his betrothed.   
  
“What brought this about?” asked Asha as she looked between Barbara and Brynden.  
  
Lady Barbara spoke up here, saying, “Hendry suggested it a few years ago as a way to put the feud to bed for a century or so.”  
  
“For a century or so?”  
  
Brynden explained, “The damn feud’s had rests before… it always starts up again eventually—every Bracken and Blackwood knows that. And Hendry didn’t like how the Hawicks were taking advantage of Lord Jonos’ death by arranging for dirt cheap toll rates that House Hawick got specifically compared to the rest of the houses along the Red Fork. It was hardly honorable, he said.”  
  
 _Gold price marriages…_  
  
Barabara interjected herself here, adding, “And they only got worse when Hendry died… mother gave Uncle Otho’s Keep to Uncle Lewdorf without even asking me. She said that she wanted it kept in the family. That was Bracken land, and while I love my Uncle Lewdorf, he’s not a Bracken. He has no right to Uncle Otho’s keep whatsoever! My lady mother acts more like she was born the Lady of Stone Hedge and if I say anything, Uncle Oswald…”  
  
Barbara seemed caught on a particular thought, unable to finish. Brynden affectionately rubbed Barbara’s back, and she smiled appreciatively at him.  
  
“It sounds like a bloody mess,” admitted Asha.  
  
Barbara sighed aggrievedly and then added, “It is… it fucking is… family are supposed to help you… not take advantage of you…”  
  
“So you’re marrying to counter your mother?”  
  
“Yes… no… partly,” answered Lady Barbara.  
  
Brynden declared firmly, “I’m going to renounce my claim to Raventree Hall and My father’s rather upset with my decision… says that I’m out of my mind or bewitched.”  
  
“Blackwoods have labeled worse things than witchcraft upon Brackens,” teased Barbara tentatively.  
  
“Ahh, but soon I won’t be a Blackwood anymore,” countered Brynden affectionately with a warm smile.  
  
“You’re giving up your name?!” exclaimed Asha.  
  
“Or force my father to disown me. Either way, how else will there be any Brackens for Blackwoods to feud with?” responded Brynden with a knowing look to Barbara.  
  
 _He’s not thinking straight at all…_  
  
She looked at Barbara, who seemed equally caught up with Brynden. They didn’t do anything physically, but the looks they were giving each other…  
  
 _Gods, is that how I look at Edmure?_  
  
Asha felt more as though she were intruding the more intimate the two got. There seemed to be something crazy to them… almost desperate… she wasn’t sure that what they said was actually the reasons they were doing all these impulsive things, or if they were only the excuses they came up with at the moment—to be thrown away or replaced as needed.  
  
She excused herself as her thoughts became worried once more that she’d been so eager to claim Edmure as hers, she hadn’t stopped to think about what else that might mean.  
  
She stumbled out of the Great Hall and down the corridor, hoping to possibly find Edmure in his chambers—but when that proved unlikely, she attempted the solar, thinking Edmure might be talking with Ser Brynden about some Riverrun matter.  
  
She was too drunk to notice that she opened the door without knocking first, and entered to hear Ser Brynden and Lady Jeyne in what sounded  
  
Lady Jeyne was in the midst of her own argument, “Of course you have to say yes! Not only will it get the damn keep built faster, but think of all the good it’ll do Tristifer to grow up with other lordlings from the other kingdoms!”  
  
“You’d rather not have the castle to ourselves, just so we can play nursemaid to even more bloody children for the rest of our fucking lives?”  
  
“Go down to the Great Hall Brynden and look at what your efforts have brought the Riverlands. There are riverlord lordlings down there acting like blood brothers—”  
  
Ser Brynden held up his hand and then addressed Asha, who by this point had opened the door far enough to stick her head through.  
  
“I didn’t hear your bloody knock, Asha,” growled Ser Brynden.  
  
“I thought Edmure might be in here…”  
  
“Well he isn’t, next time knock!” snapped Ser Brynden.  
  
Asha nodded and closed the door as quickly as she could. Confused as to where he might be, Asha thought it might be best to return to the Great Hall, and she was about to head back in that direction when she saw Edmure coming down the corridor from that very direction. She didn’t know if she ran to him, or he her, but the next thought that registered to her mind was that she was hugging him tightly and he her.  
  
“You smell of winter ale,” commented Edmure with a hint of a hungry growl to his voice.  
  
“Marq and Hugo are trying to out drink one another in the Great Hall."  
  
Edmure seemed less than pleased to hear this. He buried his face into her hair and responding with something that sounded like, “Gods… not again…”  
  
He seemed ready to leave at that news, but Asha pulled him down the corridor, hoping to get him alone. They had to talk...   
  
After she had pulled him into her own chambers, she locked the door and turned to face him.  
  
“Where were you?” she demanded as she looked up into his eyes..  
  
“With Patrek…” he answered almost solemnly.  
  
 _Why didn’t I think of that?_  
  
A short moment of silence passed as they looked at each other. Edmure, took the initiative and took her hands into his own, seeming to sense the unease that was inhibiting her from speaking.  
  
“Edmure… what are we going to do?” she asked, her dark eyes meeting his blue.  
  
He seemed to lean in for a kiss, “What do you mean? Now? We could—”  
  
She pushed him away at that, though was careful not to slip her hands out of his, instead holding on to them more firmly as she said, “No… not now, I mean with your father and your betrothal…”  
  
His eyebrows scrunched as he questioned, “My betrothal?”  
  
Asha pressed further, “The one I thought you were talking about in the godswood earlier…”  
  
He still looked bemused. “What other betrothal would I be talking about?”  
  
“The one to the Princess of Dorne!” she sighed with a bit of aggravation.  
  
At this Edmure laughed and replied, “There’s no betrothal.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“My father could never get a definite agreement from Prince Doran. And with all the attacks on Princess Elia in King’s Landing, she said that her brother has been considering a Dornish match more seriously for Princess Arianne. He only humored my father because he was the King’s Hand.”  
  
“She said?”  
  
“Princess Elia... my new step-mother,” explained Edmure.  
  
“So you’re not betrothed then?” clarified Asha.  
  
Edmure shook his head and then whispered in my ear, “My father said that he’d find someone else, and I told him not to bother, that I’d already found who I wanted to marry.   
  
“I bet he wasn’t happy about that…”  
  
“No… no he wasn’t. But I told him that he had no right marrying for affection himself and then denying his son the same right. Thank the gods my father married a Dornish woman... because she actually backed me up on that part.”  
  
“So you do want to marry me then…”  
  
He responded almost indignantly “Of course! You think I wouldn't?!”  
  
“No... but I wanted us to at least talk about it..."  
  
"You've been speaking to Brynden and Barbara, haven't you?" questioned Edmure.  
  
Asha nodded.  
  
"Well, I intend not to make a raven's mistake and a horse's folly. I may only be a fish, but a fish knows who eats whom."   
  
"Good, because like I said before, you’re mine, Tully.”  
  
“The kraken’s found her fish supper then?” he japed with a smirk.  
  
She grinned, no doubt wickedly, and then pulled him down to her height and licked her lips.  
  
“Aye…and I intend to savor… every… bite.”


	85. Eddard VI

**EDDARD**

 

The moment they had landed in the city, Robert had expected for there to be crowds waiting to cheer his arrival, wave stag banners, and for Lyanna to have returned and greet him with their children. That he got crowds and stag banners satiated his ego well enough, but to see Hoster standing there with a worried look upon his face while gold cloaks were keeping the crowds back from swarming in on them was only a sign that the things to come would not in any way resemble the triumphal return that Robert had cast for himself.

 

When Robert learned the truth of what had happened when they’d returned to the Red Keep he’d exploded—there was no other way to explain it. Thank the gods Hoster had arranged for the room to be private with only Ned, Robert, Denys, Ser Aron Santagar, Prince Oberyn who had lost an ear and acquired a new scar across his face, an equally mawed and limping Lord Commander Manly Stokeworth of the Gold cloaks, and Princess Elia present, along with of course Ser Barristan Selmy.

 

“Godsdamn that dragon-bitch!”

 

Lord Hoster spoke honestly, if prickly “While her actions were rash, I’d hardly believe the Queen Dowager worthy of such a title, your grace.”

 

“I thought she loved this blasted High Septon?! Why in the Seven Hells did she kill the bastard?”

 

Princess Elia rolled her chair closer to where Robert’s stormy pacing had brought him as she explained, “He had the Holy Hundred seize myself, your grace.”

 

At this Robert stopped his pacing “Seven Hells! Damn the man to the deepest of them! I swore you would have my protection, did I not?” Robert then grabbed a flagon of wine and drank straight from it. He then took a deep breath and asked eagerly—too eagerly in Ned’s opinion, “Are you sure he’s dead?”  


Lord Hoster broke in at this moment, “Several of the Holy Hundred were seen carrying his body about the city and preaching that the Mad Dragon should be delivered to them. They’ve had a good number of the smallfolk riled up, but thank the gods not all of them.”

 

Prince Oberyn added bitterly, “Too many of the High Septon’s victims still hang along the street leading to the Sept of Baelor.”

 

“And what is Lord Warden Bonifer doing about the Holy Hundred? They’re his men aren’t they?!” blasted Robert.

 

The Dornish Prince looked as though he wanted to say something but his sister spoke first, “Yes and no, your grace. Before I was taken hostage the High Septon bribed Ser Erren, his second in command, to have him beaten and humiliated before the rest of the Holy Hundred.”

 

“Before you were taken hostage?” questioned her brother with a poignant look at her.

 

“Aye… _before_ ,” repeated the Princess pointedly.

 

Ned caught something was being said without saying anything. His goodfather was quick to add his support, saying as he placed his hand awfully familiarly upon the Princess’ shoulder, “I was there when it happened. The Princess is quite right. Ser Erren had one of his men throw poor Princess Rhaenys.

 

At this Robert spat out the wine he was drinking and shouted, “I hope you took the man’s hand for that at the very least.”

 

“Would that I could, your grace, but the villain has disappeared from the city,” grumbled Lord Tully.

 

Robert growled and then burst, “Where’s the Queen Dowager, surely she must have something to say for herself!”

 

As a servant was sent scampering from just a look Robert gave as he demanded for the Queen Dowager’s presence, Hoster spoke up, explaining, “Locked in the Maiden’s Vault, along with her husband and their children.”

 

“Her I can understand… but her children, whatever for?!” asked Robert with an odd tenderness about him in that moment.

 

“For their protection, your grace, there have been numerous attempts made to breech the Red Keep. I don’t know how exactly, likely there are some secret passages being used that I know nothing of, but the attempts have been made nonetheless,” admitted Ser Aron Santagar with a sigh.

 

Princess Elia then added, “The first night they nearly succeeded in dragging the Queen Dowager and her family out of their beds.”

 

Robert “I want every known secret passage sealed up. Whomever is helping these rebels to sneak in is already inside the castle—fire them all if you have to, but I’m not having my children being raised in a damn building’s got more holes in it than a block of Vale cheese!”

 

“While they are a nuisance your grace, the tunnels have saved my own life… when Aerys attempted to burn down Maegor’s Holdfast along with himself, a secret passage saw me from the Maidenvault safely to a boat,” proffered Princess Elia.

 

“Well at least we know how Daemon Blackfyre came into being,” chortled Robert before clarifying, “And since you knew of this passage you’ve seen it blocked off?”

 

Ser Aron interjected, “It is well guarded, your grace.”

 

The conversation then turned to Robert calling for a map of the Red Keep and demanding to know where every secret passage that was known and marking them out on the map.

 

When challenged on the idea of sealing them off, Robert retorted, “While they may have served the Targaryens well enough in the past, I seem to recall a singer going on about blood and cheese serving them a rather nasty end at one point.”

 

It was at this point that the Queen Dowager along with Lord Warden Bonifer was brought before the king. Lord Warden Bonifer had a pronounced limp, an eye sewn shut, and a missing sword hand. The Queen Dowager was not without her own scars but none that Ned could tell that her first husband hadn’t given her.

 

Lord Warden Bonifer prostrated himself before Robert, and pitifully pleaded, “Your grace, forgive me and my mistakes—”

 

“Which ones? For aligning yourself to a bloody septon or for failing to foresee how he bribed your subordinates to remove you from your command?”

 

Lord Warden Bonifer looked confused for a moment, his eyes gazing towards the Princess Elia Ned noticed before admitting, “All of them your grace.”

 

Robert took a long moment to stare at Lord Warden Bonifer, “The mess you’ve allowed to collect in my absence is inexcusable. For that, _Ser_ Bonifer, you and your children will retire to Blackwater Keep where you will spend the rest of your days in a quiet retirement seeing that your lands are well maintained and your children are raised loyally.”

 

The demotion from Lord Warden back to a simple Ser, was not missed by anyone in the room.

 

“Y—you are most generous, your grace.”

 

Robert then sighed and turned to the Queen Dowager, who stood and did not flinch under the gaze of any person—not even Robert. She had weathered worse than this and survived, Ned wondered if she would weather this.

 

“As for you, cousin Rhaella, I am afraid that even though I applaud your coming to your senses that murder of a damnable rascal—”

 

The Queen Dowager interjected at this point, saying, “It wasn’t murder, but the destruction of a demon your grace. It is no sin to destroy one of the Seven’s demonic enemies.”

 

At this Robert pained himself to keep control of himself, but Denys broke in saying, “Be that as it may, a trial will still need to occur—not only to calm the populace, but also to maintain the law. Murder is murder, no matter who it is done against or whether or not it is a sin in the eyes of the Seven.”

 

Queen Rhaella proclaimed, “The Seven shall prove me right in my actions, and innocent in their eyes.”

 

“As will be determined through trial,” conceded Robert.

 

The aged Queen smiled at this and said, “Aye. Your grace, I demand a trial by ordeal.”

 

If the Queen Dowager hadn’t commanded the attention of everyone in the room before this, she did after announcing that. Denys paled, as did Princess Elia, Ser Aron, Ser Barristan, Denys and Lord Commander Manly. Lord Hoster’s eyes bulged, and Prince Oberyn’s mouth twisted into a distinct scowl. Robert looked rather uncomfortable. Ned, had he been raised in the North would have been confused by her request, but having fostered at the Eyrie, knew exactly what it was the Queen Dowager wished to perform to prove her innocence. He recalled passages he had read of Andals forcing adulterers and liars to walk over red hot coals or pick a stone out of boiling water, or tossing them into a river bound and tied—convinced that the Seven would perform a miracle for the innocent and punish the guilty. Ned shook his head at the idea of some of the tortures that sprung to his mind called a trial.

 

“Rhaella!” exclaimed Ser Bonifer, horrified at what she had asked for.

 

“A trial by combat would suffice, your grace,” spoke Prince Oberyn.

 

“No, it must be a trial by ordeal,” spoke Queen Rhaella firmly.

 

Ser Barristan intervened, “Your grace, I must object… the trial by ordeal is an old practice long since fallen out of use after the reforms brought about by Jaehaerys the Wise. I would be more than honored to defend her grace in a trial by combat.”

 

“It might have been discouraged, but it was never outlawed entirely,” corrected the Queen Dowager, giving an odd look to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

 

“It’s a bloody and savage tradition,” commented Prince Oberyn.

 

Rhaella almost spat, “That did not stop the Wyls from using it to mock Baelor the Blessed.”

 

Prince Oberyn and Princess Elia looked quite offended by the implication but thankfully Robert’s patience was wearing thin. “And is that how you see yourself, cousin—as a Lady Baelor?”

 

“No but it is what the Seven demand of me to prove my innocence; and so I will obey their wishes.”

 

“And if their wishes conflicted with mine?” questioned Robert.

 

Rhaella paled but she bowered her head and said, “I would obey yours, your grace. For while they may have command of my soul, you have power over my body if you so wish it.”

 

Robert grunted before conceding, “You can have your bloody trial by ordeal if you want it so, but know this, that a trial by combat is still open to you should you choose it.”

 

Queen Rhaella seemed the only one pleased by this, saying, “Thank you your grace.”

 

The matter was done, though Ned and everyone else in the room disliked the idea. After the Queen Dowager and Ser Bonifer had returned to the Maidenvault, Robert blustered, “Hasn’t anyone have any good news for me?!”

 

Hoster then stepped forward as Princess Elia rolled her chair forward and he asked, “Aye, your grace… with your permission, I would marry Princess Elia.”

 

The storm cloud that had surrounded Robert, seemed to lessen in that instant.

 

“Princess Elia, what have you to say of this?” asked Robert quite curiously.

 

“That it is my wish to do so as soon as is possible your grace,”

 

“You aren’t obligated to marry again, Princess…”

 

“No, but I wish it… Hoster and I have become rather fond of each other.”

 

At this any reservations Robert may have had instantly disappeared as he clapped Hoster on his back and exclaimed, “Hoster, you Old Trout! Of course you have my blessing!”

 

The declaration of a trial by ordeal to be held at the end of the moon was announced the next day, which brought an amazing calm to the rowdy city. The Queen Dowager was to walk across a pile of heated coals the length of the street that ascended Aegon’s Hill—a steep climb without the added dangers of hot coals. She then would have her feet wrapped and be given seven days to rest and fast without any attention given to her—if her wounds were healing at the end of the sennight, she would be declared innocent. If instead the wounds festered, she would be declared guilty. As the days drew closer to its arranged time, Ned heard of a hasty election of a new High Septon which brought to the crystal throne a man who he heard could be counted on for “peace by coin” as the term was so widely used. Disgusted Ned withdrew from concerning himself with such matters and prayed that Lyanna had had the good sense to remain at Winterfell, hoping she would remain in the North until this mess was sorted out. Robert bemoaned and bewailed Lya's continued absence, but thankfully saw the necessity with the city still unruly. Ned wished to go himself, news of another son only made him even more eager—but Robert insisted on him staying until the trial by ordeal matter was settled. He was sending Benjen home with the hopes that she could cheer him unlike he’d been able to do so. Benjen had been surly and bitter for what reason Ned could hardly comprehend. He’d even greeted the news from Ser Davos of the finished motte and bailey keep upon the Blazewater River with less than good cheer. When Ned could no longer handle the contention he cornered his brother in his chambers as he packed his own belongings in preparation for his journey North.

 

“What’s wrong, Benjen?” asked Ned.

 

“Nothing… something… everything…”

 

“Which one?”

 

Benjen simply snorted and continued to pack silently.

 

“I can’t address the problem if you don’t speak to me, Ben.”

 

At this Benjen slammed the lid of his trunk shut and turned around and snapped, “For once in your life Ned, accept that you can’t fix fucking everything with your damned honor.”

 

“ _My_ damned honor? What did I do?”

 

Benjen's eyes were icy as he shouted, “You convinced me to stay! That’s what you did!”

 

His first reply that came to mind was how he couldn’t imagine Ben leaving for the Wall with such a behavior, as he said, “You can’t go now, Ben”

 

Benjen sighed, “I know… and you’ll get your damned nephews if that’s what you’re worried about. There’s a girl up North with Lya. I’ll marry her, put two pups in her, and be done with it. Done with everything…”

 

“You think I care more about when you’ll give me nephews?! Ben, they’ll be your sons.”

 

“My wife’s sons who she’ll arrange marriages for and raise to be good and loyal lordlings to you,” jabbed Benjen.

 

“They’ll still be your blood… wait until you hold your first son in your arms, Ben, before you say something like that. It’s… well, I can’t bloody well do it justice, but there’s nothing like—”

 

Benjen stopped him before he could finish, asking, “My lord, may I have the privacy of the room for myself?”

 

The note of formality was not lost on Ned, and he knew that staying longer would only make matters worse, so he obliged his brother, and prayed that Lya could get to him unlike he could.

 

In his own chambers he found the raven which had followed him all through the war, but now kept more of a distance now that he was back in Westeros. He sighed as he observed the raven, waiting for Bloodraven to once again make his presence known. But the raven only twisted its head at him before taking off through the open window.

 

_That’s it then, huh?_

 

The day before the trial by ordeal was to take place, Hoster’s marriage to Princess Elia was to take place, as a way to hopefully get the city so drunk the night before that attendance to the trial by ordeal the next day. It was not a vast or ornately planned wedding ceremony, instead it was simply done. But in honor of the marriage, a free ration of food was given out to every person of the city, and the crown paid for reduced prices in the taverns and inns. Robert was determined to let no opportunity go to waste in winning back the goodwill of the smallfolk. Inside the Red Keep he threw a large feast—larger than such a small wedding should have prompted. Robert had all the collected children in the keep, his bastards in addition to Prince Oberyn’s in attendance. It was there Robert drunkenly pulled his bastard son to the head table where he could speak with him.

 

“Robb, my boy… I’ve declared you the head of a new house… House Goldstag—for you and both your sisters… How’d you like that?”

 

“Very well, you grace,” replied the boy who looked as though he had sprang forth from Robert without need of a mother. He was dressed primarily in black with a golden stag—distinctly lacking a crown—sewn onto his doublet. The only aspect which Ned saw any difference from Robert in was in how the boy carried himself, he was a far more serious boy than Robert had ever been.

 

“You’ll have the charge of uh… um… Bloodstone and your great-great uncle Harmon’s sworn bannerman, who’ll control a new port city upon the isle—to be named… Robert’s Port! What do you think of that?”

 

“That is a high honor, your grace,” bowed Robb Goldstag almost stiffly. He was clearly uncomfortable with this much familiarity that Robert was giving him.

 

“Smile, lad, you look almost as if I announced your funeral!” japed Robert.

 

Robb Goldstag did his best to smile, but it was far from what would satisfy Robert.

 

“Oh go and sit back down with your sisters already,” grunted Robert, clearly upset at the interaction. Robb Goldstag looked relieved, murmured his apologies and rushed off to find his two sisters who were in amongst the Sandsnakes. Blending amongst his fellow legitimized bastards Ned observed the young Robb’s seriousness ease slightly as he spoke in a quiet hush with the newly arrived Queen of Tyrosh whom the Sandsnakes had adopted into their fold. The Princess Rhaenys had also left her spot from the high table and joined the gaggle of children, seeming to find the conversation between Robb Goldstag and the Queen of Tyrosh quite interesting. He briefly wondered what it was that they spoke of.

 

Robert then broke what silence had fallen about them with, “Your boy can have a stepstone as well, Ned…”

 

Ned could hardly believe his ears. He blinked and turned to Robert and asked, “Pardon, your grace?”

 

“Oh bugger the your grace nonsense for one night, will you? I’m getting tired of hearing that… it usually means someone has some problem they wish me to solve.”

 

Ned nodded his head and said, “As you wish.”

 

Robert did not let the subject die there, merely continuing with, “But what do you think about it, Ned? I’ll legitimize your bastard and he can have a lordship in the Stepstones all to himself, eh? House Whitewolf—it’s got a nice ring to it, eh? Or Whitestark or what have you.”

 

“Or he might wish to choose to honor his mother’s family…” interjected Ned.

 

“Daynestark? That’s a mouthful! Stardayne has something to it, though…”

 

Ned repeated himself, “If my son chooses such a path, then he is free to choose his own name.”

 

“Bahh, it’s your job to see to it that he’ll be set right in the world, innit?”

 

“My son wishes to be a Sword of the Morning," stated Ned bluntly.

 

And in order to do that he’ll have to foster at Starfall. Ned thought to the letter he’d received in reply to the idea from Lord Aster, Jon’s uncle, who replied he would be happy to foster Ashara’s son and that he was interested in further "securing family ties" through a betrothal between House Stark and House Dayne. Ned knew what that meant…he knew it damn well might be a possibility. After all it was usually customary and the honorable thing for a nobleman who’d gotten another nobleman’s daughter with a bastard to recompense the loss in some manner. He just wondered if it might not be too high a price for Jon to have the freedom of the future he wanted.

 

“So Stardayne it’ll be then! He can have… oh what’s the bloody name of the bloody island…ahh, yes Whitestone, but he can always rename the thing Starstone if he wishes!”

 

Ned gave a grim smile to his friend and liege, saying, “I’ll discuss the matter with Jon but ultimately it will be his decision.”

 

Robert dismissed, “Of course of course, you want to talk it over with your boy… I’ll arrange things… in the meanwhile…”

 

Robert was drunk and his arranging things wouldn’t likely get very far if he remembered this conversation at all in the morning, Ned figured. It was then that Robert’s daughters, Mya and Bella, bounded up to their father, dressed in gowns of black that complimented their own hair, and demanded a dance from him. Robert was giddy to please his spirited daughters and whisked them off to join a circle dance jig that had just begun, one on each arm. This left Ned the freedom to roam his eyes about the hall. It seemed surreal that less than ten years ago he was in this very hall to celebrate Lya’s marriage to Robert, now he saw his goodfather sitting next to the Princess Elia and the two looking rather… fond of each other, having let their normally guarded manners down and seeming to dote on one another in a manner that seemed endearing.

 

_I wonder if that’s how Cat and I…_

 

His thoughts weren’t finished as he caught out of the corner of his eye Master Arthur sitting at a table, drinking wine from a bottle. The man had been offered to be given his knighthood back, but had refused it on a matter of principle. The Dornish warrior seemed troubled about something and was drinking heavily. Knowing from Cat that the last time Master Arthur had gotten this drunk he’d left behind a Snow, Ned thought it best to interfere before Master Arthur could add a Waters to his growing family.

 

“Ahh, Lord Stark… have you had the wine? It’s a very good year… the best Dornish Red I’ve tasted in a long… long… long while.”

 

Ned crossed his arms and gave Master Arthur a firm glance, “How much have you had to drink?”

 

“Oh only one or two… bottles,” he said as he popped open the cork to another.

 

“If you’re counting by the bottles, Master Arthur, it is time for you to stop. After all, you wouldn’t want to disappoint your daughter.”

 

A dark look crossed the Dornishman’s face before he sighed and handed Ned the bottle.

 

Ned took the bottle and handed it off to a nearby knight who looked eager to refill his own glass.

 

“The gods must be laughing at me…” groaned Master Arthur.

 

“Because you sired a Snow?”

 

“No… of course not. I’ll do right by… Ashara… gods, why did she have to name her that?!”

 

Ned held his tongue that Catelyn had suggested the name to her lady. He wondered if the jibe was meant more for him or Arthur.

 

“I’ve been told that she has two of the most haunting violet eyes ever seen North of the Neck,” replied Ned, that was the story at least he was going with.

 

Arthur nodded, looked longingly at the bottle that had made its way halfway down the table by this point and sighed.

 

“But why the gods laugh, Lord Stark is simple enough… Princess Elia and I were… well friendly growing up.”

 

More than friendly were how some of the rumors went.

 

“She was always my lady love in the truest sense of chivalry. When she married Prince Rhaegar I thought it would be wonderful having two of the people I cared about the most together… but then Rhaegar kept fretting over his bloody prophesy… and, well you know the rest.”

 

Ned said nothing, simply allowing the fallen star to gather more of his thoughts before he continued.

 

“But I never thought she’d… find another man. Especially one Lord Tully’s age.

 

“My goodfather has not seen six and fifty namedays just yet,” defended Ned.

 

“Aye, but Elia deserves more than an old man… much more…”

 

Ned knew not what to say, but he gave the Dornishman a well-meant pat on his shoulder. And then the words came to him, as if they were whispered into his ears, “He is her choice… if she is happy, that is more than most can say in their marriages.”

 

“Aye… that is truth enough,” snorted Arthur.

 

“Meet me in the small council chambers on the morrow morn. I have a plan I wish to discuss with my goodfather that concerns your future.”

 

Master Arthur dumbly nodded, and just as Ned was about to take his leave he heard the beginning chords to the Bear and the Maiden Fair echo through the hall. Master Arthur looked at Ned with wide eyes and a look of near horror. He stood in that moment, as did Ned.

 

_Robert wouldn’t be so foolish… not after the way the Princess was treated…_

 

“It isn’t a proper wedding without a bedding!” called Robert from the dance floor. He had sometime ago replaced his daughters with a pretty dark-haired woman.

 

_Godsdamnit Robert!_

 

Ned and Arthur were in an instant moving towards Hoster and Elia, but were crowded out by many men and women who had rushed to beat them to it. Thankfully Prince Oberyn strode forth between the burgeoning crowd and the newlywed couple.

 

“There will be no bedding!” declared Oberyn dowerly.

 

This was met with loud protestations from the collected mass of guests, but it allowed Ned and Arthur to squeeze through and join Prince Oberyn in giving him aid on this account.

 

“It’s tradition!” called out someone from the crowd.

 

Ned countered, “They’ve both have been bedded once before, there’s little need to repeat the ceremony.”

 

“It’s not like they’re a boy and blushing maid,” added Arthur.

 

There were a few laughs from the crowd, which Ned felt rather embarrassed to hear for his goodfather’s sake.

 

The next moment all three heard from behind them, “Brother! Lord Stark… Master Arthur.” It was then that Princess Elia wheeled her chair between them and addressed them and the crowd with, “I thank you for your consideration, but I see little issue with carrying on the tradition if the men take care to wheel my chair to the chambers and see that it isn’t broken.”

 

This was met with loud protestations from the men that they wouldn’t think of doing anything but that, and the Princess gave her brother and Master Arthur a pointed look before allowing the bedding to continue. Ned chose that moment to take his leave of the feast for his own chambers, surprised at the turn of events.

 

On the morrow he rose, broke his fast with his household in the castle and then set out for the small council chamber. He was the first to arrive, as he suspected would be the case. Arthur appeared though not long thereafter, clearly nursing a terrible headache that affected his senses. Water was called for and two pitchers of it were drunk by Arthur before Hoster made his appearance with his new wife by his side, the two positively glowing. The sight made Ned long for Cat even more.

 

“Forgive my intrusion, Lord Stark… Master Arthur, but Hoster thought I might be of assistance to your discussion.”

 

“Your company is always welcome my…” assured Arthur, as he froze at the title, unsure of how to address her now.

 

“I still retain the title of Princess, and have only added Lady of Riverrun to my other titles,” informed Elia.

 

“Of course, my... Princess.”

 

They all took a seat at the small council table, except for Elia, for whom a chair had been removed by a servant.

 

“Now what is this you were going on about earlier about Master Arthur’s sword technique?” asked Hoster.

 

Arthur looked up then from his shell of self-abasement with great curiosity.

 

Ned began, “Goodfather, as Master of Arms and Men I’ve been tasked with organizing, supplying, and seeing that the King’s men are well trained should he have need of them. In my investigations across many castles I found a gross disproportion of skill distributed amongst the various masters at arms. Wealthier houses affording better masters while poorer houses often having to make do without any.”

 

Hoster chortled, “If it is various houses’ finances you are concerned about, you should have asked Qarlton to sit with us.”

 

“Nay, what I mean is that often when we take our men to war—why look at our recent actions in the Stepstones for examples. We lost more men from houses which employed poorly trained hedge knights or worse than men from wealthier houses. That’s a tremendous waste of men—not to mention supplies.”

 

Ned knew he had to include that angle, even if his concern was more for the wives and mothers who’d never see their sons or husbands again.

 

“Aye… but I fail to see how this relates to Master Arthur,” prodded Hoster.

 

“I’m getting to that. Your brother, the Blackfish held a group of squires at Riverrun after the last rebellion.”

 

“That he did.”

 

Ned continued, “Master Arthur trained Ser Clegane to a level of expertise that brought him much noted honor and glory for his house, especially after the stain his late brother left upon it.”

 

“Do you then wish for Arthur to take on a group of squires?” proffered Elia.

 

“What?!” exclaimed Arthur.

 

Ned continued, “Not exactly… I was thinking that mayhaps a gathering of young noblemen—boys between say the ages of nine and thirteen—could be collected together in one place and all taught the simple fundamentals of being a warrior or a knight—one way, taught by one of the finest swordsmen in the kingdom, so that when faced with future wars—”

 

“We’d have far deadlier warriors and knights who are better organized and disciplined,” finished Hoster.

 

“And after age thirteen?” inquired Elia

 

“They would be sent off to squire with whoever their family had arranged, and baring that the family could not arrange to do so remain under Master Arthur’s care until he saw fit to send them to trials for knighthood or saw fit to declare them true warriors,”

 

“It’s a bold idea Ned… if Brynden hadn’t done it with Edmure and my riverlords’ sons I’d be inclined to disagree with even suggesting it. I only see one problem with it. How on earth would you be able to convince the majority of the realm to do this?”

 

“Two, where you would gather these lordlings?” added Elia

 

It was then that Arthur, after sitting in a stunned silence spoke up, “Three, how in the Seven Hells am I to handle nearly all the lordlings of Westeros alone?!”

 

“You could always choose knights to assist you; the assignment of which would be decided between myself and you,” suggested Ned.

 

“There bloody damn well should!” emphasized Arthur.

 

“My brother did a damn fine job with his squires, Master Arthur, I’m sure he would be more than happy to either assist you or recommend one of his former squires to do so,” suggested Hoster.

 

Ned then admitted, “As for where to gather the lordlings and how… that is why I wished to speak with all of you before bringing up the idea to the King.”

 

A somewhat longer silence came forth until at long last Princess Elia ended it with, “If Prince Durran were to be trained through such a method… houses from all over the Seven Kingdoms would be eager to send their sons to be fostered alongside the crown prince.”

 

“No castle yet standing would be big enough to house that many lordlings,” countered Arthur.

 

“Aye, no castle yet standing, but I’m building one for my brother at Oldstones… if funding from the crown to promote this idea could be expended… then Oldstones might just be big enough then.”

 

“Aye but would your brother agree to sharing his castle with Master Arthur?” questioned Elia.

 

“He managed his squires well enough, I’m sure he could handle another batch of them with ease. Besides he gets ornery if he has little to do.”

 

With the plan taking shape far better than he imagined, Ned turned to Arthur to see him appearing still somewhat shocked and a bit wary, but in his dark blue—almost violet—eyes Ned thought he saw an eagerness for the challenge of the thing.

 

Robert approved of the idea full-heartedly upon hearing of it after the trial by ordeal that Ned purposely missed, offering to speed along construction of Oldstones if Ser Brynden would consent to the arrangement. Lord Qarlton fretted as he always did about the money, but he was rather more forgiving seeing as with the pirates gone trade in the Narrow Sea between Westeros and Essos was booming and he expected a higher increase in tolls and taxes because of it in the coming summer.

 

At the end of the sennight, Ned was preparing to leave himself for Winterfell when he caught the announcement of the Queen’s trial by ordeal. The bottom of her feet were only lightly burned and healing. There was some outcry amongst the smallfolk at this announcement made by the new High Septon, but it was nothing compared to the near riots that had awaited their return from Tyrosh. With a troubled mind and heavy heart, Ned set sail from King’s Landing for White Harbor, hoping to arrive in time for Benjen’s wedding with Arthur alongside him, traveling to meet his daughter.


	86. Rhaella II

**RHAELLA**

 

As the day approached for her Trial by Ordeal, Rhaella spent much of her time in prayer.

 

Blessed mother, full of mercy, protect me through this ordeal

 

And when she couldn’t pray, she found her mind replaying the events at the Sept of Baelor, trying to recall anything before Aerys had appeared—all for naught. And when she couldn’t do that, she found herself unable to help but ruminate over her time in captivity…

 

_When she had first awoken to find herself in the Maidenvault, it had been noted soon and Laerys, her lanky dragonseed guard had entered._

_“Your grace, you’re awake!”_

_“Aye, I am… what am I doing here?”_

_“The Lord Hand thought it best considering there’s been men infiltrating the Red Keep attempting to take your life.”_

_Men infiltrating the Red Keep?! Seven help me…_

_Suddenly the image of these men reaching her bed chambers to find naught but her children reached her mind._

_A second blood and cheese!_

_Frantic at the thought, she asked, “My babes, my Baelor and Aelinor and Naerys! Do they live?! Are they safe?”_

_“Aye my grace, they are with Septa for the nonce, shall I fetch them?”_

_“Please, Laerys…” she nearly begged, her throat now dry and scratchy. She needed to see her children, to have them about her once more. Rhaella sighed, relief slowly calming the panic that had arisen in her. But then another question rose to the top of her now percolating cauldron of a mind._

_“Why would anyone want to kill me?” questioned Rhaella just before Laerys could leave._

_Laerys stopped and turned around to face her, he seemed pale and nervous._

_“You k—killed the High Septon, your grace,” admitted Laerys, barely able to look her in the eye to say it._

_At first the crime sounded so unbelievable she wanted to deny it then and there. But then she recalled how the blood had stained the man’s robes, and she knew it to be true. She’d killed the demon… he was dead. The demon who’d worked to destroy the Faith from within, who had killed many, and taken Bonifer and…_

_Bonifer!_

_  
“Where is Bonifer?" was the first thing out of her mouth after the shock had passed and been accepted._

_“With Grand Maester Gormon. But I’ve sent for the Lord Warden, your grace. He asked to be notified the minute you awoke. Anything else your grace?”_

_Rhaella shook her head and Laerys nodded before departing her cell. She noted the door was locked behind him, but whether it was truly to keep men from murdering her or not, Rhaella could not be completely certain._

_Bonifer appeared not long thereafter, he looked thoroughly exhausted and completely drained. In the light of day rather than in the shadows of the Sept, he looked even worse for wear. He needed a cane to stand properly. Bandages and a sling for his one arm nearly covered him, and what skin did show through looked bruised and well beaten._

_“Oh my love!” cried Rhaella not long after taking the sight of him, unable to bear the sight of him in so much obvious pain._

_She embraced him but as she did he pulled away and said, “Don’t touch me, Rhaella… I… I am too… unclean for you, my love.”_

_She understood what he meant almost immediately and she said, “Have you not spoken to Elia?”_

_“Gormon nearly didn’t let me come to see you… but I insisted. I… I am weak Rhaella… I know it. I needed to see you at the very least…”_

_“You are not weak, Bonifer,” rebounded Rhaella._

_But he shook his head and muttered, “I let a demon take hold of the Faith and persecute in its name and… I said nothing.”_

_Trembling herself, she added, “I am no worse, Bonifer.”_

_“But you did something about it!” countered Bonifer, who then added, “In the end, you sent the demon back to the Seven Hells it belongs to while I… I…”_

_“You were hardly in any condition to fight off men—” she began._

_“But I found it in me to do so to save you, Rhaella. I…” he then held up his left arm in his sling, and Rhaella saw that the end of it was bandaged over what appeared to be a stump as he stated, “I lost my hand doing so, but I’d have lost any reason to live if you’d…” at this Bonifer seemed unable to continue._

_“We were both tricked by the demon, Bonifer… that’s the simple truth to it, and were simply the last to realize it…” she then said, hoping to bring some sort of comfort to him. In that moment, Bonifer finally accepted her grasp of him, causing him to sink to his knees painfully, and they leaned on one another, remaining together like that until Laerys knocked and Septa Desminisa entered with the children. Rhaella was buffeted by Aelinor and Baelor to begin with, with Naerys reluctantly but firmly once she had decided to, clinging to Rhaella as well._

_Rhaella noticed her cowled goodsister staring at her—no doubt word of her deed had spread by this point, but the children seemed in ignorance of it enough. It took some coaxing but_

 

The memory of Naerys’ hug was sweet… even if the events which prompted it were far from being so. And as the day approached it became her favorite memory to think on. Anything to keep Aerys and his taunts at bay…

 

_Slut! Whore! Murderer!_

 

The day was quiet to begin with, and overcast. The night before she knew had been devoted to Elia and Hoster’s wedding. Had she been freed she might have taken offense at not being invited to the festivities, but instead Elia had seen to it that her portion of the food from the feast had been sent to her in the Maiden Vault. She might not have been able to attend physically, but her goddaughter had been sure to let her know that she would not be forgotten nonetheless. Shortly after dawn, when Rhaella would have expected the happy couple to have still been lingering to their marriage bed, Hoster and Elia paid her a visit. Most of the visit was spent in silence, as very little needed to be said, and spending the silence alone together was soothing, Rhaella found.

 

When they did speak it was barely above a whisper to keep the still sleeping Bonifer and the children asleep. Baelor she held in her arms while Naerys and Aelinor had curled up on either side of their father.

 

They spoke of short things.

 

Elia assured her, “It’ll be shortly after midday.”

 

Rhaella had only nodded as she held Baelor closer to her. After today she would be secluded from the children and Bonifer, who after her awakening had been placed in the Maiden Vault with her for their protection. She would be kept in seclusion, interacting with no one and expected to pray in her solitude until the seventh day was done and the will of the gods would be known.

 

“If you want a trial by combat, your grace, it still is available to you…” reminded Hoster

 

Rhaella only shook her head. No… that wouldn’t satisfy the gods. To have spilled blood in the Sept of Baelor… this was the only way to blot that out and prove the divine will she knew pushed her on.

 

“We must be going… Eddard wished to speak with us before…” Hoster seemed unable to bring himself to finish his sentence.

 

As they left the room, Rhaella called afterher, “Elia… for Bonifer’s sake… I thank you.”

 

Her gooddaughter answered, “I didn’t do it for him.”

 

“I know.”

 

And then they were let out of the Maiden Vault. As the heavy doors were locked behind them, Rhaella felt Baelor stir and begin to groan and fuss.

 

Rhaella held him close to her and shushed him. She sat back and hummed a lullaby for her babe.

 

“Rhaella?” called Aerys, but he did not sound as mean or harsh as he had in years.

 

She turned to see him now a younger and more handsome man. He now looked barely old enough to be considered a man. It was a memory, she now recalled. She had been lulling Rhaegar to sleep when he had been this age, sitting in a chair looking out a window onto the twilight of King’s Landing. She’d been a callow youth who didn’t know how to hold a babe properly and lost her mother to the fires of Summerhall to show her how and had refused to be taught by some serving woman. She blushed at the memories and her stubbornness.

 

But Aerys did not go as her mind “I’m sorry Rhaella... I am. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

“But you did,” she recalled saying.

 

“Aye, I did. But you see I was just so angry that my plans were rejected that I lashed out.”

 

She had said nothing to this.

 

He’d broken up then, “Please… Rhae… you’re… you’re the only family I’ve got anymore.”

 

She’s spat at him, “What about your brothers in everything but blood?”

 

“They aren’t blood of the dragon… they’ll never be. Only you are…”

 

“Swear that you’ll never hurt me like that again,” she had insisted.

 

“I swear it.”

 

“Swear it on the Seven.”

 

“I swear it, isn’t that enough?” he’d asked a bit bitterly.

 

But her stubbornness had persisted, “On the Seven.”

 

Aerys had risen, offended at her inability to simply accept that he’d sworn it of his own free will. It had been she then who had had to seek him out and apologize—which to Aerys meant trying once again for another babe.

 

As he had thrust into her that night he’d said, “We… shall have… a family again… with sons… and daughters… and grandchildren… to cloak us, Rhae… we can have… our family… back!”

 

Longing to hold yet another babe in her arms, and lonely in grief, she had agreed. He had then called out, shot his seed into her, and collapsed on her, panting as he always did while she just laid there. It was the closest thing to loving words he’d ever tell her with him inside her.

 

Her thoughts were disturbed then as she felt Baelor move in her arms and heard a tapping on the window. Gone was Aerys and the night, now the early morning light had grown stronger and more beautiful. At the window she had been sitting by with Baelor, perched a crow—a black crow that must have confused the Maidenvault for the rookery. Baelor was awake now and simply nuzzling at her bosom. Were he younger she thought he might be trying to nurse, but she had told him that was inappropriate for him to do now that he was getting bigger.

 

“Rhaella…” called Bonifer from the bed, rather quietly.

 

“Don’t wake the girls,” she urged, as she rose, still holding Baelor in her arms, and crossed over to the bed.

 

Aelinor she saw had claimed her father’s chest with her thin little arms, while Naerys was close enough to be in arm’s reach, but even in sleep gave herself enough space so she wouldn’t be touched. Bonifer looked much older now than he had before the Sept. Streaks of grey in his hair were much more prominent than his brown hair,and he seemed to constantly look weary of the world. She placed Baelor down next to Naerys and then sat down next to Bonifer so she could stroke his hair.

 

He whispered urgently, “Please Rhaella… I beg you… let me fight for you.”

 

“I can’t…”

 

_I can’t risk losing you, my love… not when we’ve worked so hard to have a family of our own._

 

“You’re being stubborn Rhaella.”

 

“Aye, but not without good cause.”

 

Bonifer snorted at that.

 

“It’s supposed to be me, Rhaella… I’m the one who did wrong. If I hadn’t closed my eyes to the truth about Bones—”

 

“You would have run your own sword through him. And I hardly think the King would have been as indulgent with you as he has with me.”

 

“A man should protect his family.”

 

“Aye… and so should a woman hers.”

 

She’d leaned over and kissed him then. He was reluctant at first, but soon it deepened as the fear and desperation in them both urged them on. It only broke when the doors to the Maidenvault opened and her ladies-in-waiting, including the haughty Lady Felyse Stokeworth, entered to prepare her for the trial.

 

As she rose, Bonifer took her hand and held it for a moment, before whispering, “I love you…”

 

Rhaella smiled, squeezed his hand and retired to the inner chambers for her preparation. Her ladies began by cutting her hair. In a trial by ordeal one had to show humility as they pleaded for the Seven’s intercession. She stripped herself to her small clothes and then even of them. Her nakedness was covered by a thin white shift to show her attempt at proving her innocence and purity. When her ladies had finished, she was without hair and only the simplest of clothes. Curious she asked if she could see herself in a mirror. Without her hair to hide it, Rhaella saw she’d inherited her grandfather’s egg shaped head, which seemed larger now and precariously balanced atop her thin swan-neck. She looked nothing like herself and yet this was who she was beneath all the jewels and dresses.

 

She was escourted to the foot of Aegon’s Hill on the edges of Fleabottom by goldcloaks, her ladies required to stay back with the rest of the court at the top of the hill. It was freezing cold to her in only a shift, but at the very least there was no snow to be seen. As she walked to the bottom she saw men pouring hot coals from braziers all along the road that switched back its way up the hill at a steep incline. A few rolled down as they did, only for more coals to be called for. As she came closer to the foot of the hill she saw crowds lining the street.

 

“Murderer!”

 

“Demon!”  


“Witch!”

 

“Whore!”

 

“Kill her! Kill her!”

 

One of the smallfolk attempted to charge at her with a knife—he lost his hand holding the knife before another goldcloak stabbed him through the gut. The insults did not stop after that, but more attempts to charge at her thankfully did. At long last she was at the foot of Aegon’s Hill, before the long winding path of hot coals.

 

From atop the hill, she saw the King stand and bellow out in a big booming voice.

 

“People of King’s Landing! This woman has killed the holiest of holies. To answer for her crime she asks to be judged by the Seven above to prove her innocence. Cousin Rhaella, Queen Dowager, are you sure you wish to place yourself at the Seven’s judgment?”

 

She knew the answer to this, as she replied, “The father is just, the mother merciful, the warrior swift, the maiden pure, the smith belabors, the crone wise, and the Stranger knows.”

 

“Then may the Seven see fit to judge you as they see fit,” called out the King as he returned to his seat and motioned for her to begin.

 

The insults and cries began once again. Someone tossed something brown towards her, and unflinchingly did she continue her walk.

 

The first step burned her right foot, the smell was awful enough to nearly make her vomit, but she swallowed back the tears which poured forth from her eyes and placed her other foot next to it. The second step burned just as much, but she bit her tongue to keep from shouting out. And then with great purpose she took another step, and another. The wind picked up at this point, freezing cold, and causing her shift to hug her form on one side as the other flapped in the wind. It was the strangest sensation of all. Her feet were sweating while her teeth chattered, feeling at once that she was freezing in ice as her feet burned with fire. As she approached the first turn up the switchback her feet began to grow numb and the pain seemed to lessen while the wind blew harder, as if it were attempting to either blow her over face first into the coals or off the switchback entirely.

 

When at last she turned the second switchback she knew there was only a few feet left before she was through, and then the true trial would begin, waiting for the Seven’s judgment.

 

Watching this occur with a certain nervousness was the new High Septon, who unlike his predecessors, wore a simple white robe with only the crystal crown to mark his holiness. The King was gripping the chair that had been brought out for him so hard that his hands hand gone white from the pressure. The only other person sitting was her gooddaughter, who clutched her new husband’s hand firmly. Her ladies were crying, the rest of the assembled court aghast. Bonifer was present, but thankfully the children were with his sister the Septa.

 

Rhaella felt nothing… she was beyond emotions now. All that could register in her mind was the cold and the heat as sweat trickled down her legs.

 

And then she came to the end. Taking one step off of the coals she felt as though she were stepping onto solid ice—the stones were so cold. She nearly cried out but she bit the side of her mouth—blood soon mixing with her saliva. The second step off of the coals was even worse as she felt she’d freeze to death there and then. She then collapsed to her knees before the King

 

“I await… the Seven’s judgment… your grace,” she managed at long last to croak out.

 

It was his holiness who spoke next, saying with a rather nervous tittle to his voice, “bind her feet, Septa.”

 

Rhaella was asked to turn over by an old woman with gnarled fingers, to which Rhaella obliged. Rhaella looked at her feet—they were blackened and blistered, but the true test would be if the Seven would heal her or not. The Septa wrapped her feet tightly, seeming to smile if her toes flexed only in the slightest.

 

She was brought to a cell then, a cold dark cell and locked inside of it with only a slice of stale bread and some water to sustain her for the rest of the day.

 

“It’s just you and me, Rhae…” she heard the younger Aerys say when the guards had left. He stood half in the shadows.

 

She replied, “No… not even you… just me.”

 

And with that the memory was gone, and she began to pray.

 

It soon became hard to determine what was reality and what was dream in the dark cell. She prayed when awake as much as she prayed when asleep. Her daily supply of bread and water became the only way of knowing that she was awake—and then she only got it once a day. Darkness consumed her. She shivered uncontrollably in the dank cold of the cell.

 

And then at last the Septa appeared again, after what had felt almost like a moon—though she knew it was only to have been seven days. She brought with her a basin full of water, some rags and a torch. For the first time in seven days Rhaella had her feet unwrapped and examined. If it looked as though she’d received the Seven’s blessing and begun to heal, she would wash her feet.

 

But if it festered, the guard who had come with her would escort her to the courtyard and have her head.

 

The bandages unraveled slowly—it was too dark for Rhaella to see, but she waited in anticipation. She hardly felt the old Septa prod at her feet with her fingers, until at long last in one spot she did.

 

The old Septa then dunked the cloth into the water basin and ran the cold water over her feet. As she did, Rhaella felt more of her foot—as though the old Septa were merely wiping away a layer of dirt from her skin. But Rhaella watched and saw the old blackened skin from the bottom of her foot fall away and break as it met the cloth, revealing underneath, still scarred feet, but not as badly burnt.

 

She cried in that moment, thankful for the Seven hearing her prayers.


	87. Benjen IV

**BENJEN**  
  
Upon arrival in Winterfell, he found himself immediately hailed and hounded by Ned’s pack of wolf pups. Robb and Jon were now approaching eight and nine namedays came bounding for him when he dismounted. They were now large enough to nearly knock him over as they did so. But the person who actually did knock him over after chastising the boys for their behavior was Lya. She greeted him in as undignified a manner as she always had.  
  
“Your beard’s gotten thicker!” she proclaimed proudly.  
  
Benjen snorted. Of course she’d say that.  
  
As he was getting himself up from the snow covered courtyard he was knocked back over by two more nephews—one Brandon reborn, and the other Lya’s eldest fawn—though at the moment he seemed more pup than fawn as he and Rickon laughed at his grumbling about being knocked into the snow twice now.  
  
When he finally recovered himself enough that he could stand once again to brush as much snow as he could from his furs, he heard his sister laugh.  
  
“Oh don’t look so grim, Ben, you’re not Ned!” japed Lya.  
  
This only caused Benjen to scowl further.  
  
“What do you know what I’m like anymore?”  
  
Lya was caught completely off guard by the comment, but then laughed, likely thinking it a jape. In that moment, Benjen’s eyes caught the loveliest eyes he had e’er seen once again in his glance. Lady Elyssa, who now approached to help Lya to her feet, gave Benjen a slight smirk on an otherwise equally grim face. Not far behind her came his goodsister Catelyn keeping little Arya who was bundled all in furs in line from joining her brothers in tackling him. Gods, Arya was now walking… he recalled when she had been newly born.  
  
“Uncle Brandon, father wrote and said you were knighted!” urged an eager Jon.  
  
“Tell us how! As future Lord of Winterfell I command it!” ordered Robb good-naturedly.  
  
“Aye, tell us!” added Rickon.  
  
“Please uncle!” added Durran.  
  
Such a topic was the last thing he wished to speak on. A pale body in a boat flitted before his eyes before vanishing again.  
  
“Robb, Jon, Rickon! Leave your uncle be!”  
  
 _Thank the gods, Catelyn…_  
  
The children were hurried off, with Lya taking the opportunity to brush the snow off of   
  
“Lady Elyssa,” Benjen then spoke, figuring   
  
“Yes, my lord?” asked Lya’s lady-in-waiting   
  
He was quite serious, “I would like to speak with you, when you have the opportunity.”  
  
“Of course…” answered Lady Elyssa with a brief bow of her head as she departed.  
  
Lya by this point was encouraging Durran to return to is playing in the snow with Rickon—his favorite cousin.  
  
“So you will marry her then?” asked Lya   
  
“Aye,” he answered as they headed for the Great Keep.  
  
 _If she will have me... she was reluctant before…_  
  
“What’s this ‘aye’? She’s your choice isn’t she? That was your agreement with Ned, wasn’t it?”  
  
“She and I will discuss the issue.”  
  
“The issue?! What’s gotten into you?”  
  
“Nothing,”  
  
“If it was truly nothing, then you could tell me,” she countered.  
  
“Leave it be!” he snapped.  
  
"Where's your sweetness, Ben? Where's your good heart?"  
  
He thought of a woman pale as a bone laying in a boat and he felt the wind begin to pick up, a little colder than it had been before.  
  
"The world is far from sweet, Lya."  
  
He opened the door to the keep, and as he did he heard Lya call to him, "So you choose to be bitter, then?"  
  
There was a Benjen the Bitter in the histories of Winterfell, just as much as there was a Benjen the Sweet... Sweet or Bitter... he should have known from Father's and Brandon's deaths that it would only be bitter. Sweetness was only an illusion. He did not answer her, instead closing the door to the Great Keep behind him. He trudged up to his room, the room he’d inhabited since childhood. Looking about it he couldn’t help but feel as though the boy who had lived and slept here was dead in the Stepstones, never to return. He’d be glad when he would at long last be able to journey west to his new holdfast.  
  
Lya continued to be miffed by his behavior, and did nothing to stop the onslaught of questions at the dinner table from nearly all the collected boys—even from Ned’s wards—pressing him to talk of the pirates he fought and how he got his knighthood. Catelyn once again came to his rescue in scolding all the boys that such conversation was not seemly for the dinner table, but Benjen knew he only had a small reprieve.  
  
Instead, Benjen spent most of his meal speaking with Lady Elyssa, asking how she had fared being stuck in the North for nigh on three years now.  
  
She was rather grim as she said, “Dark Wings, dark words, that has been my experience in Winterfell, my lord.”  
  
“Have you lost family in the war then?” prodded Benjen.  
  
“Not in the war, but my family has known recent loss,” conceded Elyssa quietly.  
  
Benjen wasn’t such a fool as to prod further, and let the subject go at that.  
  
Durran decidedly took after his mother in being persistent, Benjen decided. At first he had been caught between whether it was a Baratheon trait or just Lya’s stubbornness, but of all the children who wished to hear his war stories, the five nameday old Durran was the most obstinate in balking at his refusal.  
  
“I’m the Prince, and you have to tell me if I command it!” he pronounced one evening when he had been disturbed in his silent thoughts by Durran and Rickon. Theon, Raynald, and Ned’s other boys had stopped pestering him a while ago, but Durran was insistent.  
  
“There are some things that even a Prince shouldn’t hear until he is older,” countered Benjen.  
  
“I hardly think it’d be all that bad,” scoffed Lya, who was seated nearby with the fussy Edrick who pawed at her bosom—eager for a feeding. “I mean, after all, it’s not like you saw much of anything on a boat. Oh, not now Edrick!” Her youngest son began to whine at his mother’s refusal. With a large sigh she then turned to Elyssa and barked, “Deal with him, Elyssa.”

 

Lady Elyssa put down the shirt she was working on with Catelyn, and took up Edrick, who instantly began to cry at being separated from his mother.  
  
All the while Benjen stared at Lya for a moment before nearly growling in response, “You know nothing.”  
  
“Of course I don’t, because you won’t say anything!” she snapped back at him.  
  
Durran and Rickon looked eagerly between himself and Lya, as though they had never seen two adults squabble before.  
  
It was the action of an instant, but when what little wine he had had left in his glass had been poured onto her he departed the Hall immediately, all through Lya’s surprised yelping and shouts at him. He needed to be outside once again.   
  
He didn’t bother with a cloak—and enjoyed the sensation of the cold nipping at his skin somewhat. He looked to the west and the setting sun—soon he would be closer to it than he would be here in Winterfell. As he appreciated the vibrant oranges and reds of the sky, he heard two voices not far off in the distance. Slightly curious, Benjen approached, soon arriving at the kennels. Inside were the wooden stalls with many yaps and yips from several of the cages—but most prominently were the ones mixed with laughter. At the other end of the kennel was the kennel master and two boys cleaning out a kennel and putting down fresh hay. Benjen stood at the doorway and looked in to see two small children nearing four namedays this year—one with Stark hair and the other Tully—though in this light it too could have passed for Stark in its coloring. Cooing and laughing over a small grey pup between them were Brandon and Lyarra—who in one instant seemed to remind Benjen of a boy and girl who’d played in the kennels long, long ago.  
  
It wasn’t long before he was noticed, and at that, little Brandon stood up, let Lyarra have the pup and hurried over to him. Brandon looked up at Benjen and smiled pleasantly, he then took Benjen’s hand and pulled at him to follow, which Benjen complied. Benjen noticed the kennelmaster taking a good look as to what was occurring—likely having been told to keep an eye on the children—but looked away almost as soon as he’d noticed Benjen.  
  
“Uncle Ben, mamma and Aunt Cat said I could have a pup when we go south!” announced little Lyarra quite pleasantly as the grey pup   
  
“That’s very kind of your Aunt. Have you thanked her?” asked Benjen, relieved for once that the first sentence out of his niece’s mouth wasn’t a question about the war or his godsdamned knighthood.  
  
“Lyarra wants to take Shaggy,” explained Brandon.  
  
“Shaggy?” asked Benjen until he realized that his nephew meant the pup.  
  
“His name is Stormy,” retorted little Lyarra as though it were the most obvious name for the pup in the world. The pup looked between the two childen as though it didn’t care what it was called, just so long as he got to play.  
  
“Stormy… right…” agreed Brandon as though he had simply forgotten the name that Lyarra had given the pup. The pup butted its head at Lyarra in request for more attention. She was happy to oblige with another stroke down its head and shoulders. The bitch, whose kennel they sat directly outside of had six other pups crawling all over her—tugging at her ears and tail, or wrestling with each other and looked glad to be relieved of having the seventh do much the same.

 

As Stormy the pup continued to pounce and lick at both Brandon and Lyarra, Benjen couldn’t help but notice how similar of temperament they were. They were quiet, but not quiet like Ned was, where half the time you wondered what it was he was truly thinking of or worrying about, but in a way which he had often heard of his mother being described as quiet—serene, aye, that was the word. Benjen could hardly recall mother—the blury image of a woman resembling something like Lya—only different somehow—permeated his mind when he focused on it, but in truth he’d been little more than a babe when she’d died trying to give birth to a fifth child who’d been born dead. But growing up Benjen had been inundated with comparisons and stories when pressed of mother—as though the servants or even Brandon were trying to compensate for her absense by speaking of her. Through such talk he knew vaguely what his mother looked like. He also knew that compared between her and her sister Branda, Lyarra Stark had been called the Shy She-wolf. Shy around those she hardly knew, and yet sweet and open to all members of her pack, aye that’s what father had said once.  
  
Thinking on father he felt tears threaten to spill, but he held them back. And then suddenly he felt a pair of little arms cling to him. He looked down to see Brandon having snuggled against his side and quietly taken hold of him. Despite himself, Benjen smiled as a few tears treacherously escaped him. Then he felt on the otherside another pair of arms and looked down to see little Lyarra doing just as much. There were no words exchanged, nothing needed to be said… somehow… in some strange way they understood. He didn’t know how and he didn’t want to know how, he was simply grateful for them, and so he better grasped his royal niece and lordly nephew.  
  
After the moment had past, Brandon stirred and looked up at him and asked, “Uncle Ben, Robb wants me to do something I don’t wanna do.”

 

“Then don’t do it,” interjected Lyarra, breaking free from Benjen’s grasp to better face Brandon.

 

“I’m asking Uncle Ben.”

 

“I still think you shouldn’t do it,” added Lyarra.

 

“What shouldn’t Brandon do?” asked Benjen to Lyarra.

 

Brandon explained, “Robb wants me to eat a weirwood seed. He said the raven told him I had to, but I don’t wanna.”

 

Benjen thought for a moment, remembering his great-uncle who’d appeared the day that Brandon had been born. There’d been something “off” about his great-uncle and how he behaved… and Benjen had watched as Robb, Jon, Theon, Raynald and even Ned had all begun to start doing things with little explination beyond “the raven said”. There were times that they all seemed normal, like when Robb and Jon had tackled him upon his return home, and other times when they seemed as though they were something else entirely. The idea that Brandon, his serene and sweet nephew might begin acting like that upset Benjen… it upset him tremendously.

 

_What’s the worst that could happen?_

 

“You don’t have to listen to Robb in everything, if you don’t wish to,” he finally said.

 

“But one day Robb’ll be Lord of Winterfell and I’ll have to listen to listen to him then, right?” asked Brandon.

 

“Of course you will then, he’ll be your lord then!” added Lyarra

 

“Aye, but not in this.” Benjen sighed before continuing, “Taking a weirwood seed is a…” Oh how to put it? “a… matter of belief, and Robb will never be able to tell you what to believe.”

 

“But what do I say when he tells me I have to?”

 

“Tell your mother,” she should put a stop to it.

  
_She’s southron after all… if I’m uncomfortable with all of this, surely she’s even worse._

 

Brandon nodded dutifully, and promised he would.

 

At that moment the Lady Elyssa appeared at the door to the kennel.

 

“Mamma said I could play with Stormy until sundown!” protested Lyarra immediately upon seeing the Lady.

 

“I’m not here for you, my Princess,” she said calmly with an odd look at the three of them which then shifted to Benjen solely, while adding for Lyarra’s benefit, “Though you should keep an eye as the sun’s nearly set.”

 

Benjen stood, his eyes locking with Elyssa’s while Brandon and Lyarra promised to keep an eye on the sun.

 

Benjen left the kennel accompanying Lady Elyssa.

 

“My lady…” he began, sure she had come to speak with him, but how to continue he was unsure of. Before when he’d been angry with Ned the thought of asking Elyssa directly had seemed the best way. But now… he felt different about that.

 

When it became apparent that he was reluctant to continue, she added, “Elyssa. If we’re to be man and wife, I would prefer it if you called me Elyssa.”

 

He stopped and looked at her, shocked with what she had said, “You agree? But I thought you wished for a longer engagement?”

 

“Aye… I did, once. But some things have since changed.”

 

“What things?”

 

She swallowed and with some difficulty admitted, “My sister Lorra died.”

 

Benjen was immediately hit by how her eyes softened at the mention, and he felt something odd stir inside of him as he took her hand and gave her a sad smile, which she returned in response. He understood and he could she could as well. Nothing more was said between them for the nonce, with only nephew and niece disturbing them when the setting sun had turned the sky from reds and oranges to blues and purples.

 

The wedding had the small delay of awaiting the arrival of Elyssa’s Arryn cousins and remaining sisters. Benjen, who was unfamiliar with houses in the Vale, assumed via his previous interactions with Harys Arryn that it would be members of the cadet branch from Gulltown. Much was his surprise when upon discussion of the subject turned to that of the main branch residing in the Eyrie along with Catelyn’s sister, Lysa. Lyanna absolutely refused to return south to King’s Landing before seeing Benjen and Elyssa married, her mood finally lifting at the prospect of the event. Benjen found it much easier to talk with Elyssa over the coming weeks as they planned their wedding in concordance with Lyanna and Catelyn—often using her as a chance to avoid any lingering questions about the war that the children might have had.

 

The ceremony was to be simple enough with Elyssa exchanging cloaks in the godswood. The only question came over whether there would be any Septon present. When Benjen brought the question to her, Elyssa seemed surprised, saying she had not given religion any great thought.

 

“I stopped praying to the gods a long time ago in the Vale… it matters not if I marry in front of a man in a white robe or a white bark tree, it’s all the same to me.”

 

“Your sisters would expect it, wouldn’t they?” prodded Benjen.

 

“They know I’m marrying a northerner. That I adopt his religion and traditions wouldn’t be seen as odd,” she offered.

 

“And would your sister Anya say the same?” asked Benjen.

 

“Anya is different.”

 

“Aye, but she also is living and preaching in our domain,” he reminded her.

 

“Our domain? Surely you mean yours.”

 

“No, our. It will be our children’s, the lands will be just as much yours when I’m gone to the Wall as they ever were mine.”

 

At mention of the Wall, Elyssa’s eyes became a tad downcast as she responded, “Of course…”

 

The matter of having a septon present or not was settled with a no when Ned returned with a clear distaste for the mention of any kind of septon.

 

Lord Denys Arryn and his eldest son of four namedays Edmyn arrived from White Harbor not long after Ned’s return with a large unexpected party that did not include his wife.

 

To a disappointed Catelyn, Lord Denys had explained his wife’s absence “Since the twins’ birth Lysa’s been afraid to leave Rowena and Annalys’ side for fear that what happened with Minisa could happen with them.”

 

Benjen noted that Catelyn did her best to hide her disappointment by paying a great deal of attention to Edmyn. The reddish-gold haired boy was precocious, curious, and oddly polite—a fact his manners-minded father seemed to swell with pride at as he greeted his Aunt Cat like a little southron knight.

 

The large party that Lord Denys had brought with him was a company of traveling mummers whom he’d encountered in Gulltown, and was one part of his wedding present in addition to the sheep and goats the Valesmen were well known to keep. Denys suggested taking the sheep and goats and beginning a wool trade in that part of the north, and the goats providing milk that could be sold relatively well. The idea he admitted hadn’t been his own but one which the Gulltown Arryns had suggested upon further discussion with him. He of course also gifted Elyssa with a fine necklace with emeralds, diamonds, and sapphires that Benjen thought rather gaudy—but he held his tongue. Benjen received a sword from Denys that held a very sharp edge to it and had a wolf’s head for the pommel.

 

“May both be prized heirlooms for your family,” toasted Denys when he presented his personal gifts for them.

 

As for the mummers, Denys had apparently brought them upon remembering, “Annalys once said you liked a good mummer’s farce.”

 

This elicited great excitement from all of Winterfell—as Benjen knew mummers and minstrels were a rare sight to find within their walls—odder especially since Ned had taken to the lordship, and the songs of The Bloody Wolf began trickling from minstrels’ lips.  


When questioned on the eve before the wedding Benjen was caught off guard by their questions.  
  
“What sort of play do you wish, my lord?” asked the head mummer, a Braavosi with a heavy accent, a thin mustache, and dark hair pulled back into a pony tail.  
  
Elyssa asked, “Play? Is that anything like one of your farces?”  
  
The mummer smiled now, his red-stained teeth from his chewing habit revealed in that instant as he said, “A mummer’s farce is but a mummer’s play at the world, life, and even truth.”  
  
 _Gods does he like to talk._  
  
“What _plays_ do you perform?” inquired Benjen.  
  
“Many many types. But principly there are two major forms… Comedy and Tragedy.”  
  
Elyssa seemed out of her depth at the sound of this, which Benjen didn’t take to be a good sign of what was to come, so he asked, “What would you suggest?”  
  
“You two are to be married, are you not?”  
  
Benjen nodded his head.  
  
“Mayhaps then a comedy t’would be best. For a comedy has something for everyone, but most of all stories for _lovers_ , liars, and clowns.”  


The fact that the Braavosi put a special emphasis on lovers, made Benjen feel uncomfortable.

  
“Nothing so frivolous,” dismissed Elyssa.

 

“Then a tragedy if you need gravitas and seriousness. Let us talk of the death of Kings and Gods—the sacrifice of one man for the world.”

 

He and Elyssa looked at one another—that wasn’t what either of them wanted either. Benjen frowned, and then asked, “Isn’t there something between the two?”

 

“Well… our company playwright has been experimenting with a new play, but I’m not sure we are completely ready to perform it.”

 

“If it is something new, I would be quite interested in seeing,” emphasized Elyssa. Benjen knew that the mummer was looking for a few coins to convince him, a price which he willingly paid for Elyssa’s sake.

 

On the morn they met in the godswood and in the silent stillness of the trees they exchanged cloaks and vows with their families and the majority of Winterfell’s staff as witnesses. The ceremony was simple and easy.

 

The feast, which Catelyn had labored to plan for over a moon, began almost immediately after. It wasn’t until an hour or so into the feast that the mummers began their “play” in the Great Hall. A portion had been set aside for the mummer’s performance, and became the center of attention of all the guests when the Braavosi mummer stepped out onto that cleared section of the Great Hall.

 

“My Lords, Ladies, Sers, Masters, and Mistresses, I am pleased to announce that this evening you shall be the first to bear witness to a new work entitled What You Wish.”

 

The “play” then began as a story of a Steward’s daughter, Afona, who falls in love with the heir of the castle, Ser Seren, who held a little affection for her, but thought of her being unworthy of marrying him due to her grandfather having been a smallfolk awarded knighthood, and her mother having been foreign. Two things which his friend and fellow newly minted knight, Ser Derys, with whom he had recently finished squiring with, convinced him were against her—while Ser Derys leered at Afona.

 

“Alas, my heart is heavy with emotion,

for I can love no other than Seren!”

 

The mummer girl who played Afona proclaimed to the assembled audience when all the other mummers had left the stage from the introductory scene.

 

“I cannot help it, for he was kind to me upon my mother’s death unlike any other in the castle—not even father was as kind or sweet as he. But with his squiring, I fear he has grown as hard as steel. I hope ‘tis only armor that when removed reveals that sweet lad that was.”

 

At that Benjen felt Elyssa take his hand and squeeze it.

 

Ser Seren’s father, Old Lord Adum, was apparently quite ill and near death, but Glynda proclaimed that she could heal him. She was scoffed and doubted by many of the other mummers, but she said she stayed steadfast in her belief, and did so with an elixir she claimed to have made from her mother’s notes. The mummer playing Old Lord Adum seemed to throw off sickness in an instant and proclaimed that in reward for saving his life he would grant her her dearest wish.

 

“Oh do not ask that of me, my lord, for I am but your humble servant in all things.”

 

“Nay child, I mean to reward thee. I’ll let none say Old Adum Argall will not reward those who do not deserve it. Come. Out with it. Pray speak thy wish!”

 

“If it is my dearest wish you wish to have, then take it. To wed your son Ser Seren is my greatest dream and deepest desire.”

 

At this the mummer playing Old Lord Adum grew angry, and the mummer who played her Steward father chastised her, “That is thy wish, child! Why, a fish may love a star, but they would find no place to live! Is it not enough what we have? Must you reach higher still?”

 

And he was not the only character to react as such, with only Ser Seren remaining silent throughout as the rest of the mummers’ berating of her, as if lost in thought. Humiliated she exited the scene to cry. As the rest of the characters left, Ser Seren then spoke to the audience himself.

 

“’Tis far from honorable what my father has done. To promise the girl to grant her wish and then shatter it in the next moment, it lacks heart. I should speak with Afona and more gently ease her heartache; for though she may not be able to marry me, I would not have her in tears.”

 

In the next scene Afona was found alone on the stage crying to her mother’s grave, begging for her wisdom and advice. Just then Ser Derys appeared and promised her that he could grant her her wish if she did what he told her. He then began forcing himself upon her, against her will, tearing her dress in the process. Ser Seren then appeared and demanded the truth—with Ser Derys insisting: “She was willing and easily bought--no better than any other whore.”

 

“Liar, you came at me without any provocation!”

 

“Do you dare declare Ser Derys, a knight and brother of mine in all but name and blood, a liar?”

 

“Aye, the boot does fit too well!” charged Afona.

 

“The whore’s tongue does wag too much and offends my honor. Let me cut it out and see if it then will speak so!”

 

Ser Seren then stayed the sword and demanded that Afona leave.

 

The play continued further with Afona being brought before Old Lord Adum, condemned for her libel and proclaimed a whore she was disowned by her father and cast out of the castle.

 

Further heartbroken and appearing betrayed Afona left Lord Argall’s castle.

 

It was at that point in the play the lead mummer did appear, though this time not as himself but as a cloaked figure holding an hourglass.

 

“For I have come to sing one of many songs;

Time heals wounds and helps right wrongs.

What wishes or dreams may be broken now,

With the passage of few years does bow,

To the wish of mine, majestic Time,

And set right this unjust crime.

And so with a few turns of my little glass,

Poor Afona is now a woman and no lass.

Old Adum has died, and Ser Seren now lord,

With lecherous Ser Derys his sworn sword.”

 

The play then continued with Afona having been captured sold into a brothel after having lived for years a beggar. There she takes the name of Parvana, and nursed back to health in the care of the whores, who show her a kindness she had not seen since Seren in her childhood. The Bawd and the Owner of the brothel however forced the girls to sell their bodies, and were played by the same mummers who had prior played Old Lord Adum and Lady Argall, Benjen noted. The first attempt for a man to deflower Afona was met with her giving a great speech of honor and virtue—which Benjen thought would bring her to wrong, but apparently converted the man.

 

The next scene returned to Lord Seren’s home where he was in the process of burying his recently dead wife whom his father had chosen for him and who he’d never loved. His only child, a girl named Elisa is in need of a mother, or so reminded old Jamyn, who still remains Steward to the Argall family, but Ser Derys convinces the now bearded Seren that that could wait as he should instead enjoy the benefits of being a widower for a little longer. Reluctantly Seren agrees, thinking that Ser Derys and himself would travel the land for a while to recapture their squiring together for their knight, only to be horrified when he decided to have them spend the night at a brothel—the same one Afona was sold to.

 

Upon arrival the Bawd and Owner addressed Ser Derys as if they knew him well.

 

So began the Bawd, “It’s the new girl which tries my master so, she will not sleep with any man. Instead she lectures them on virtue and turns them into pure and holy pilgrims, and our girls into chaste Septas!”

 

This received a loud laugh from nearly the entire servants, enough to stop the mummers from continuing the scene for a time.

 

The Owner declared, “It’s her maiden purity which puts power behind her words—were she to lose the Maiden’s blessing, they’d have no effect.”

 

“If you could but stain her white cloak, her spell would be undone. And then the coin could run again!”

 

To Seren’s horror he saw as Ser Derys agreed to this. And as the Bawd was sent to bring Parvana to the front, Seren and Derys got into a fight where Seren expresses that Afona was right about him just as Parvana enters with her face hidden behind a veil. Lord Seren to prevent Ser Derys from attempting to corrupt Parvana then paid the owner for her himself. And he then sits and talks with Parvana, whom Seren cannot explain why but he feels drawn to. Parvana then told him that he is kind and honorable, but a bit foolish to think he could keep the owner from selling her maidenhood in one way or another. Lord Seren then expressed concern that he was so duped by Ser Derys and that he could right the wrong he had committed.

 

Parvana then said she could perhaps help him right his wrongs by helping him to find this Afona, whom she had heard tale of before her capture, if he would but buy off the owner and Bawd of the brothel and let the women go free. Seren did so and the rest of the play consisted of Afona as Parvana taking Seren to the streets where she begged and asking after her, only for him to believe Afona dead due to her outcasting, as one of the beggars tells him. Only then did she reveal her identity to him, claiming her intention was not to trick him into thinking her dead, only that he understood the consequences of the actions he took. Reunited, he asked her to wed him to which she said yes.

 

It was certainly caught between the two types of stories that the mummer had described, neither frivolous nor serious, but instead had elements of both mixed together--albeit haphazardly in Benjen's opinion. However he did note that it affected all assembled with happy tears, and many saying that they had not seen a mummer’s farce so life-like before.

 

After the applause had been given and the feast allowed to resume the lead mummer was asked by Elyssa to explain what was meant by the “play”.

 

The Braavosi smirked, his red-teeth showing, and replied, “’Tis our playwright’s attempt to capture life as lived—for as he were to say, life is neither wholly bitter nor wholly sweet, but bittersweet indeed.”

 

“Aye… so it seems,” said Elyssa ruefully.

 

The bedding was called late in the night after many had drunk their fill, and was dumped into a different bed chamber than the one he had grown sleeping in—thank the gods. The consummation of the marriage was fumbled at best. Benjen had no idea what he was doing and he hardly expected Elyssa to know any better. In fact she seemed rather stiff and fearful throughout the first night. They had little opportunity to practice after that before needing to leave for their holdfast upon the Stony Shore. The journey took over a month—a good portion of which on rough terrain as the road that Ned had promised to have built only went a little beyond Barrowton at this point. This slowed the pace of them and their retinue and afforded Benjen the opportunity to come to know Elyssa in the worst of situations. He often found herself handling the travails rather well, keeping a cool head about her and not afraid to trudge through the mud and dirt when the occasion called for it. Overall she seemed hardy and calm—something Benjen hardly would have known about her before as Lyanna’s lady-in-waiting.

 

One afternoon they were caught in a rainstorm and had to seek shelter in an abandoned holdfast between the Stony Shore and Ryderhal—the seat of House Ryswell. She was soaked and slightly dirty—as was he—and they both were tired from the journey—but even with all of that, her eyes, her lively lovely blue eyes drew him in. Before their retinue could finish bringing their belongings in out of the rain to the ground floor of the crumbling keep, they claimed an upper floor with a few leaks as their own, and then and there truly consummated their marriage.

 

The journey continued, with Elyssa and him spending more nights together than they had before as they reached the Blazewater River, crossed it, and then turned south in the direction of the holdfast. The first sight of it caught Benjen off guard, he had heard from Ser Davos and Ser Wylis not to expect more than a simple Motte and Bailey, but when Benjen first laid sight upon the wooden castle that was to be the beginnings of his own branch, situated upon a hill overlooking a tiny village that had cropped up around it at the mouth of the river, with the sight of a rather busy harbor where the river met the bay, and Benjen was astounded to think that this was all his and Elyssa’s. It was far more than he had ever imagined. They were greeted the following day with a feast his holdfast had prepared, introduced to his newly arrived maester, Brynmor—a rather youngish man with a small number of links and a habit of fidgeting uncontrollably—that it truly set in to his mind that he actually was a lord now—sworn directly to Winterfell, of course, but a lord of his own, nonetheless. The day after that was to be the launching of the ships that his harbor had been laboring to build since the completion of his keep using a new design that Benjen did not recognize but could see afforded the ships to sail farther faster.

 

The commander of the three ships to set sail was a Botley, and spoke with confidence of crossing the Sunset Sea. Benjen wished him luck but wondered if the man truly could accomplish his goal and live to tell the tale, especially as he was taking his eldest son Harren with him. Staying behind, and apprenticing for the shipwrights who had built the vessels for Botley was his second and third sons, Tristifer and Symond, who meant to establish themselves as shipwrights for Benjen’s harbor and fleet that needed to be built. The lads were but only five and three namedays beyond their tenth nameday respectively, but seemed capable and knowledgeable from having assisted in the building of the ships their father and elder brother had already needed. The rest of the Botley family remained in Seaguard where Harren Botley was promised a keep and the hand of Mynerva Mallister upon his return with his father. Watching the ships depart for the west, Benjen hoped that their gamble proved well for them.

 

It was that night that Elyssa told him she thought herself pregnant, and so the pack began to grow.


	88. Oberyn V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song described in this chapter is inspired by "Spem in Alium" by Thomas Tallis. When the story gets to that point, I'd suggest listening to it, for it's a gorgeous piece of music.

  
**OBERYN**  
  
“See, you’re blushing because I know it’s the truth,” japed Oberyn as he leaned back in his chair from behind his desk. He placed his right foot upon the edge of it to give him balance as well as the right angle to lean to stretch his cramped back muscles—which he’d over stretched in the Sept of Baelor and had yet to fully recover from despite the passing moons.  
  
 _Gods, let me die before I get too old._  
  
His eldest son, Obi, with his violet dyed hair and light green eyes was sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk, his face red in embarrassment at being caught. Oberyn liked seeing his Essosi son squirm—there was a kind of perverse pleasure in it, about the same amount he’d gotten causing Doran equal amounts of embarrassment when he was Obi’s age or younger… well, definitely younger, seeing as his son was a man grown now. A fact he could hardly believe and yet was distinctly proud of.  
  
Obi finally admitted, “I didn’t think you would approve of her.”  
  
His smile turned to a frown, as he retorted, “Approve of her?!” He took his foot off the desk and sat properly for once in his seat again—to the discomfort of his back. “Don’t you know me at all by now, Obi? I have a fucking paramour for gods' sake. If you want to marry your Essosi smallfolk friend, I’d be the last person to complain—well, except for the marriage part. You are rather young to be thinking of settling yourself down so quickly.”  
  
Obi countered, “Other men I’ve fought with have married—Ser Tristan, Ser Brynden and Ser Edmure will soon as well.”  
  
“Aye, much to my… goodbrother’s irritation.” It was rather hard to think of that greybeard as Elia’s chosen husband. For some godsdamned reason she loved him and he her—that Oberyn couldn’t deny—but a small part of his mind wondered if she wasn’t simply settling because she was stuck in a wheeled chair. She was still rather beautiful, and worthy of many a young lover—but she’d never taken one, and now settled into the garden of middle-age rather eagerly by marrying a man soon to enter his dotage. The whole thing simply struck Oberyn as rather upsetting.  
  
 _She could have done better… she deserved better looking, even if he had a better heart than many a young man would…_  
  
Realizing that he had gone too long without saying anything to his son, Oberyn shook his head and tried to bring his thoughts back to the present, “You’ve held your own spear against pirates, won yourself a knighthood, and have been given a seat--"  
  
“A burnt and destroyed seat,” grumbled Obi as a grim look set upon his face.  
  
Oberyn countered him directly, “It won’t remain that way for forever, especially with your aunt and… uncle being so kind to request that instead of wedding gifts, donations and trade agreements be put towards the lumber and stone required for rebuilding Plankytown. But anyway, you’ve done your work to twist those greybeards, why not continue doing so with a paramour of your own choosing? There’s no need for you to marry. Why not carry on—”  
  
“Lysenia is not—!” began Obi but he stopped himself and with a sigh continued, “She’s not Ellaria. And I _want_ to marry her… I… _need_ to marry her.”  
  
And in that instant Oberyn saw a kind of desire in his young son’s eyes that Oberyn had only seen on rare occasions—the last had been in his brother Doran’s eyes when he had looked at Mellario one last time before she’d left to return to Norvos—upset over the fact he had sent Quentyn off to foster with the Yronwoods, and then entered negotiations with Hoster damned Tully on the possibility of marrying Arianne to his Edmure. Supposedly she’d had given Doran a third child back in Norvos, a son his sources whispered, that looked rather liked Doran had in his youth, though was of a more impatient temperament than Doran had ever been. Mellario had written nothing to Doran, choosing to remain separate from him with their youngest child in Essos. If Hoster hadn’t made his damned inquiries, Mellario wouldn’t have left… Doran would know his second son… and Elia could be with someone without so much grey hair and lines.  
  
He couldn’t think this way—he was being childish, as Elia would say. Mellario and Doran had been having difficulties in their marriage long before Quentyn had been sent to foster. Hoster was only doing what any other high lord would, and as for the boy… no, Mellario was definitely to blame for that as far as Oberyn was concerned. The way Andella had hidden Obi from him had nearly ruined their relationship, Oberyn determined. His relationship with Obi was not similar to his relationship with the girls all, nor was it at all like the one he had with Lewyn. With the rest of his children there was great trust and love there. With Obi, Oberyn never felt he was allowed to see his son’s soul too often—as though it were a precious secret he wished to keep hidden, even from his father.. He should’ve pressed the boy to stick with poetry to teach him how to express himself completely—but Obi had had little skill as a word smith, and Oberyn too little patience to cultivate a desire in his son to change that fact. As such much of Obi was a mystery to him at times—while at others Oberyn could see himself in his son and read him like he did a blatant rhyme. Oberyn felt he was overcoming the challenge but Doran, he felt, wouldn’t have the direct force of nature capable of surmounting the walls his son might put up should Mellario keep his existence a secret any longer. The last thing he wanted for Doran was a relationship like what he had with Obi—simply for the fact that he could not see his brother’s heart surviving further heartbreak. He would have to write to his goodsister—that was the only solution.  
  
“Well?” interrupted Obi.  
  
“What?” asked Oberyn, coming out of his thoughts.  
  
“Didn’t you hear anything I said?” demanded the exasperated Obi.  
  
“I’m sorry Obi, you have my attention now,” assured Oberyn as he forced himself to sit up straight, his back complaining as he did.  
  
 _Godsdamn Rhaella!_  
  
Obi hissed, “I asked if you ever considered marrying _my_ mother…”  
  
There was a simple and easy question to this, one which he could easily give, but for just a moment, Oberyn paused to take in his son's face.  
  
“No, I never did—frankly I’m not the type for marriage... What’s prompted this then?”  
  
Obi evaded his question with, “Yet you live with a paramour as though you two were married.”  
  
“Having a paramour is different from marriage.”  
  
“In what way?” rounded Obi.  
  
Oberyn scoffed, and for his back’s sake placed his boot once again on the edge of the desk and leaned back in his chair. Gods did it feel better, “If you don’t know the answer to that, then mayhaps you should consider the practice before you exchange cloaks.”  
  
Obi seemed angered by this, declaring, “Oh, I’ll marry all right! I won’t abandon Lysenia!”  
  
The air was tense and thickened with each passing moment.  
  
“You think I abandoned your _whore_ of a mother, then?”  
  
A whore who had gotten what she deserved at Harrenhal, as far as he was concerned.  
  
Obi’s face grew red and his eyes narrowed as he spat, “You made her a whore and then left her!”  
  
Oberyn rolled his eyes, sighed, rubbed his forehead and then added, “She was already a whore when I met her, and she was a worse one after she abandoned you.”  
  
Obi was oddly silent at this, and Oberyn seized the opportunity in catching his son off guard to continue his campaign, his eyes and words piercing into his son.  
  
“You want to know how I found her, your whore of a mother: naked on a bed in the Starry Woman. Her breasts were on the smaller side, and she had shaved between her legs--they bristled against my skin. I was young and foolish, and wanted to experiment, so we made you against a wall instead of on the bed. We got so loud that the whore next door to us banged against the wall, yelling at us to keep quiet. When we were through, I paid her with a bag of silver twice her price and told her that if any child came of it to send word to Sunspear. She had no illusions shattered and knew exactly what she was doing. Your mother was a whore long before I came into her life.”  
  
Having finished, Oberyn took a deep breath and took his eldest son in fully.  
  
Obi was pale and clenched his teeth together as though he were a wild animal about to strike.   
  
_He needs his foolish notions knocked out of his head anyway._  
  
It was then that a knock came at the door.  
  
“Come in!” called Oberyn, figuring that either the matter would be quickly resolved or afford Obi time to consider his life more carefully before he jumped into such a stupid thing as a marriage too quickly.  
  
As he had suspected, his two squires came in Ferys “Deryn” Arryn and Daemon Sand. They were near one another’s age and notably didn’t like one another. As they entered, they seemed in the midst of some argument or other, as they shoved each other, causing Oberyn to have to stand and separate them before it came to actual blows. Oberyn could only catch bits and pieces of their desperate attempt to appeal to him.  
  
“My Prince, this bastard—” began Deryn  
  
“He was listening at the door!” protested Daemon  
  
“—interfere with my duties! I told him that I—”  
  
“Had his ear up to the keyhole—”  
  
“Was charged to keep a watch—”  
  
“Wouldn’t let me in to tell you—”  
  
“—the damn sandy bastard wouldn’t believe me!”  
  
“Enough!” called Oberyn as he pushed each lanky boy to the ground and away from one another.  
  
After a moment Oberyn looked to Daemon and asked, “What is it that you felt you had to pass Deryn?”  
  
“The Princess—Lady Tull—uh your sister wishes to speak with you. She said it was urgent.”  
  
Oberyn smirked, and corrected, “She is still Princess Elia, Daemon—she’s only added Lady Tully to her collection of titles. Though the next time someone asks to speak with me urgently you will tell Deryn that.”  
  
“Of course, my Prince,” answered the gangly squire with close-cropped red hair.  
  
Having established that, he decided their punishment, “Now, this evening I wish for you to have my armor cleaned, by both of you. Mayhaps doing something together you can learn to tolerate each other better.”  
  
Deryn and Daemon both looked less than pleased at this news, but nodded their heads and turned to leave.  
  
Oberyn then turned to his eldest son and declared, “We’ll finish speaking later, Obi.”  
  
Obi snorted. “Of course, with a Tully, family always comes first,” sneered Obi before he rose and left with Deryn and Daemon.  
  
Immediately upon Elia’s entrance and the door having been shut Oberyn couldn’t help but blurt out: “What’s wrong?”  
  
As Daemon took his leave of the room, closing the door behind him, Elia asked, “Why must something be wrong? Can’t I ask to speak with you urgently about something good?”  
  
“Forgive me, Elia, but where you are concerned, I’ve come to consider urgent news to never be good. But now that I’ve made my blunder, tell me what it is I’ve overlooked.”  
  
Elia drew her breath and then rather suddenly and simply admitted, “I’m with child.”  
  
Had she said it any differently, Oberyn would have thought she were japing, but with the way her eyes met his, Oberyn knew that this was the complete and honest truth.  
  
He took a breath himself and then exclaimed, “Others take the King! If there hadn’t been a bloody bedding—”  
  
“If there hadn’t been a bedding?! Do you think of me as some chaste Septa?! Am I not a woman as any other? Am I not allowed to have desires and needs of mine own? I mean, I may not feel my legs, but I can still feel between them as good as I ever have!”  
  
Oberyn swallowed, for in that instant Elia had a look about her that their mother used to have whenever she scolded him. When the shock of seeing their mother had retreated he answered, “Of course… but a child is another thing entirely, Elia. After Aegon, you wrote to me that—”   
  
Elia then burst out in aggravation, “I don’t care what the bloody maesters say I’m keeping my babe!”  
  
He was quiet for a moment, and then insistently pressed, “If you won’t listen to the maesters, then at least listen to me. You can’t have this child.”  
  
“I am still young enough—” she began.  
  
“But ill of health!” he interjected.  
  
She stared at him as though he’d slapped her. He hated himself for saying it, but he had to speak of it.  
  
He shook as he continued to speak, his voice trembling and his hands having to grab his desk to steady himself as he stood, “Elia, I can’t lose you. I’ve come too close to doing so already far too many times…” He then approached and took to his knees before her, pleading, “Please… don’t do this…”  
  
“I won’t die,” she answered quietly, before tears of her own began to appear “But is it too much to ask that I have a child by a man whom I care for? You have children by the score—more than you know what to do with or can pay attention to, but I only have Rhaenys left to me, and soon enough she’ll be a woman grown. Aegon is dead. I want a child that’s mine, who isn’t some Prince who was Promised or future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I want a babe of my own to nurse at my breast, to grow to fill my lap—to teach to walk and talk, to love and comfort. And when older you could teach him or her to hold a spear while Hoster taught with a sword. I want a family of my own that I don’t have to share with anyone else. Is that too much?”  
  
Oberyn knew not what to say in response to this, so he lowered his head and sighed.  
  
“What does… Hoster say?” he asked.  
  
Looking away from his gaze she admitted, “I haven’t told him… yet…”  
  
“You tell me before your lord husband?” he teased slightly.  
  
“I thought you’d support me when I told him… I thought… I thought he’d tell me what you did.”  
  
“And I will support you,” he replied immediately—hoping to cast aside any doubt that might have been planted by his questioning, and then with a gentle smile he japed, “If you continue to persist in being stubborn—what other choice do I have?” This made her smile, and then seriously he added, taking her right hand in his, “But Elia… you can’t die.”  
  
There was a pregnant pause before she replied, her left hand taking his hands and her eyes locked with his, “I won’t.” And then with a smile she added, “At least I promise you that I won’t die before you do.” He smirked. And then with a laugh she affectionately took her right hand from his grasp and rubbed it across where his right ear had been. He resisted the urge to flinch with the pain he felt, knowing it wouldn’t do well to ease her mind by showing any sign of weakness in front of her. “Which with how you fight, might come sooner rather than later,” she japed.  
  
And for a short instant he was taken back to the Sept of Baelor.   
  
_Shock returned to him first as his chambers fell away to return him to that night.. He was in total and complete shock over what Rhaella had done. He watched in horror for a moment as the High Septon stumbled back with the blade still in his gut. In an instant he knew that he’d have to act fast to protect Elia and so he had swooped on top of them so that they could not close the doors and lock them inside. The first one he took by surprise, stabbing him in the shoulder of the man’s sword arm—severing his tendon and causing him to fall to the ground screaming in utter agony. The second guard attempted as Oberyn pulled his spear out of the first to graze his sword into Oberyn’s side—attempting to jab between the scales that made up Oberyn’s side piece between the two pieces of plate which protected his front and back—but he dodged the sword in time, causing the guard to stumble into him, and allowing Oberyn to pull his dagger and stab the man through his throat with his knife._  
  
 _When the exit had been assured he gave a nod to the goldcloaks carrying Elia out before hurrying down the steps._  
  
 _“Oberyn!” she called out behind him._  
  
 _He sheathed his knife once again, and with his spear readied he rushed down into the thick of the fighting. The idiot Lord Warden Bonifer had already broken free from his goldcloaks and was trying to reach the screaming Rhaella._  
  
 _Lord Commander Manly called out “Protect the Queen Dowager!”_  
  
 _Hoster and his men were already fending off attacks, and somewhere in the thick of the fighting Oberyn heard Bonifer scream in more pain somewhere amongst the chaos and clanging of swords. And then he found a big hulking man—Ser Erren—coming straight for him, and they fell into a duel. Using litheness and quickness to his advantage, Oberyn parried and dodged Ser Erren’s more cumbersome moves. And then it happened when he had plundged his poisoned spear into the joint between the man’s plates—Ser Erren’s sword had already knocked off Oberyn’s helmet in an attempt to behead him. As his spear dug into its target, Oberyn felt cold metal slide down the side of his face followed quickly by red hot blood. At the time he’d only thought himself cut on the side of his head, and had squeezed his head back into his helmet to continue fighting. It was only when the rush of battle was finished that all of a sudden the pain and sense of lightheadedness had over taken him, causing him to faint._  
  
Hoster Tully took the news of Elia’s pregnancy with a mix of emotions. He seemed genuinely ecstatic to once again be a father—something he had long since given up upon. Another part of him fretted over her reputation of ill health and asked if she truly wanted this child. Overall Hoster took the news better than Oberyn had.  
  
The return of the Queen and the Princes and Princess from the North soon overtook the court later in the day, with the Queen expected to make an appearance after a long afternoon of rest that evening during a feast that had been arranged in celebration of the King’s achievements in the Stepstones. Being so closely associated with the Royal Family, Oberyn was seated with Elia, Hoster, and Rhaenys at the royal table—while down below he exchanged looks between himself and Ellaria who sat with all his children. Gods he wanted to be sitting there. It was absolute torture watching her tease him as she ate her fruit with a knowing wink to him.  
  
Elia and Hoster were worse than they had been at their wedding, with Hoster eager to do the most menial of tasks for her, even going so far as to feed her. Elia, happy for his reaction, for once let him spoil her without objection. It was almost positively sickening to watch.  
  
Rhaenys and Durran, the future of the kingdom were seated next to one another, and from what Oberyn observed, Rhaenys’ attempts to amuse her child-husband to be prompted much laughter between the two. The young Princess Lyarra, who had been but a babe when Oberyn had last seen her seemed somewhat depressed and lonely—with not even her large grey pup that she hid under the table to cheer her up. She pushed her food about her plate with her fork as though none of it pleased her. Oberyn did not see the youngest, Prince Edrick, considering he was far too young to attend a feast. The King was in a mood that no one had seen him in for some time—not even that whore Oberyn had heard he’d visit when it became clear the Queen would extend her visit to attend her brother’s marriage had lifted the King’s spirits as much as they seemed this night. He fawned over the Queen, who for a moment seemed in the mood to be fawned over.  
  
“More wine for the Queen!” called out the King when he began to notice her cup had   
  
“I’ve had enough wine, Robert!” she insisted with a laugh.  
  
“No more wine for the Queen!” called back the King at the servant.  
  
“You’re frightening the staff,” laughed the Queen.  
  
“Well let them be frightened! I am a storm cloud, am I not? The Ironborn even call me the Storm God made flesh!” declared the King.  
  
“Aye, with gentle rains hidden inside it,” rounded the Queen with a knowing look.  
  
“Gods Lya, don’t give me that look now…not when I’ve had this much to drink…”  
  
“Aye, only a cup!”  
  
“A cup is more than enough for what I have planned," teased the King as he leaned in for a kiss.  
  
  
No, Oberyn figured, he wouldn’t tell the King just yet that the whore had begun to refuse customers as her belly grew—eager to cash in on the life her child might count on as a Goldstag.  
  
It was then that a staff was knocked for attention from the opposite end of the Hall, drawing everyone’s eyes to Clodos, a Pentoshi minstrel in Robert’s court, who had arrived with Obi and Lady Mormont—the man whom Oswell Whent had saved at the cost of his life.  
  
“Your graces, my lords and ladies, I humble do beseech your attention. For in honor of his grace’s conquest of the Stepstones, I have composed a piece in his honor.”  
  
It was then that a line of forty or fifty men and women came forward and compressed into two lines.  
  
The King whispered loudly to his Queen, “Is it to be a group of farting minstrels then? I love a good minstrel who can fart a tune!”  
  
“And play a viol while being tossed in the air by a blanket,” snickered the Queen.  
  
“Gods! I forgot about that one!” bellowed the King with a hearty laughter.  
  
Clodos of Pentos however did not seem amused—instead he simply bowed low and then turned around and with his hand pointed to a young woman standing on the end of the first line—Oberyn recognized her as Clodos’ daughter, his pride and joy who held a sweet and lovely sounding voice. She began to sing alone high and sweet, but had not gone on for long until the woman standing next to her joined in, and the next and the next after that—all singing a different line that interconnected and harmonized beautifully until soon every singer was singing—all their own parts from what Oberyn’s ears could hear. After all forty or fifty singers had been cued in Clodos simply went about keeping beats with his one arm and seeming to control how loud or soft the group got with his other. They sung in High Valyrian that Oberyn could tell from words he caught here and there were meant to be praises to the King and his accomplishments. The group of singers sounded far unlike anything Oberyn had ever heard before in both Essos and Westeros. And from the reaction of everyone else in the room, it was completely unlike anything any of them had heard either. The music sounded as though it came directly from the Gods themselves. It seemed to capture all of nature in its expression, the rolling and swelling waves of the sea, the soaring and gliding bird amid flight, then the strikes of the melody digging into the song like a miner would into the earth, the constancy of some notes as it was traded from one voice to another a burning flame that flickered in a gentled breeze… the images that sprang forth to his mind inspired him like none other. He wanted to write a poem. And then with a wave of his hand the singers swelled and stopped, leaving the entire hall as silent as a mausoleum.  
  
No one dared say anything for the longest while until the King—utterly taken aback—stood and raised his goblet to Clodos.  
  
“Well done… again…” he urged, still obviously in shock and amazement at what he had heard.  
  
As the group of singers began again at Clodos’ direction, Deryn appeared by his side.  
  
Deryn nervously whispered into Oberyn’s ear, “My Prince, you must come with me.”  
  
“What is it and why aren't you with Daemon?” hissed Oberyn, more than unhappy at the disruption to his inspired muse.  
  
“Forgive me, but my brother, Ser Morys, has returned with news about Ser Buckwell’s gatherings. He says it’s urgent.”  
  
 _Damn it! Not now… why now?_  
  
Oberyn let out a great sigh.  
  
“I’ll meet him in my study, alone. Stand outside and see we’re not disturbed,” ordered Oberyn reluctantly.  
  
As Deryn hurried off, Oberyn leaned over to Elia and whispered that he had to leave. She gave him a nod and a squeeze of her hand. He caught Ellaria’s eye and with a knowing look told her to seek him out in an hour or so. He then left the hall through a side door to a back chamber, and through that to the main corridor. All the while he could hear the music from the hall echoing down the corridor grow fainter and fainter. He was at his chambers quite quickly and could still faintly hear the singers if he strained his ears.  
  
“My brother needed a moment to relieve himself, my Prince, he’ll be back quite soon,” promised Deryn as he led Oberyn into his empty chambers.  
  
“You could have come for me after he had done so,” spat Oberyn discontentedly as he dismissed the Gulltown Arryn. Deryn was quick to leave and close the door, leaving Oberyn with little to do but wait, and strain himself listening to the music. He leaned against his desk—not anxious to sit down and continue to strain his back. As he calmed down and allowed the music to again wash over him, he looked at a blank roll of parchment on his desk, and feeling inspired began to write a poem. He began by writing of the images he had seen with the music—there would be time to better phrase things—but now he simply let pour out of him the pent up waters of inspiration.  
  
He did not know he wasn’t alone until he felt a pain in his lower back. He turned around quickly and saw his own eyes in a light green hue glaring back at him.  
  
“Obi? Why?” he muttered before he felt another pain, this time in his gut. He looked down to see his own spear buried deep into him. He collapsed to the floor and began to feel a numbing feeling from the poison he kept on his spear. Blood spilled forth from his gut. He opened his mouth to call for Deryn’s help, but a bag of coin was stuffed into his mouth in that instance.  
  
“You never came for me. You searched out for Obara, Tyene, Nymeria, and Sarella—but not me. Even after you heard I lived you didn’t come! As for the coins, don’t worry _father_ , I counted it, and it’s double what you’re worth,” spat his son at him.  
  
Then from a corner of the room Oberyn knew there to be no door emerged another figure—Lysenia. The tall and willowy young woman with light blond hair hurried to Obi’s side and looked upon Oberyn.  
  
“I have the last of the loyal little birds in the tunnel. The ones that remain are loyal to us,” she whispered eagerly.  
  
“Good. We’ll leave the body here and be rid of two problems at once,” added Obi proudly, and then he kissed Lysenia—with whom he was finally as tall as—hotly and passionately.  
  
She broke off the kiss and pointed to him, still upon the ground, in shock and numb to the world. “You want to do it now… with him still alive?”  
  
Obi stepped on his hand and dug the heel of his boot into Oberyn’s palm. Oberyn wanted to scream out in pain but his voice failed him.  
  
Nuzzling at her neck, Obi said, “Gods yes! Deryn’s standing guard like I told him, everyone else is in the hall, and the poison should have numbed most of his body by now.”  
  
Lysenia seemed reluctant, but with a well placed hand between her thighs, gave in and hiked up her skirts, as Obi pushed her against a wall, loosened his belt and dropped his trousers and entered her forcefully.  
  
Oberyn tried to move his remaining arm—but the damned poison he had was too quick and had turned his arms to leadened stones. All he could do was watch as Obi and Lysenia went at each other like wild animals, biting, sucking and clawing at each other as they pounded against the wall. Soon he began to grow cold… oh so cold as his vision grew blurry. Everything slowly began to fade to black, and all that was left to him was his hearing. Soon he thought that gone as well when the pounding against the wall had long stopped.   
  
The last thing he ever heard after a long drawn out and cold silence was Ellaria’s screams.


	89. Sawane

**SAWANE**  
  
The wind and the rains were strong and heavy.  
  
The Storm God be damned, he’d make it through.  
  
“It’s no use Captain! The line is caught!” yelled the Riverlander boatswain that Jason had recommended.  
  
 _A greenlander who’s used to little ponds and rivulets, that’s what his sailing amounts to!_  
  
“Fuck it! ‘Tis a gale, nothing the Storm God hasn’t sent my way before!” called out Sawane as he took the helm over from the Riverlander  
  
The crack of thunder came down upon them, and the wind and the rain blew harder still.  
  
 _We must make it, we must!_  
  
As he steered the ship upon his thoughts came Mara, his beautiful wonderful Mara back in the Riverlands with their youngest boys, and their newly born daughter. By the Drowned God how he missed her!  
  
 _“What use is there sailing west, Sawane?” she asked as she laid out Vickon’s shirt to be mended._  
  
 _“Seaguard has taken us in, Mara, but Seaguard is not Lordsport.”_  
  
 _She clucked her tongue as she threaded her needle, “Truer words were never said.”_  
  
 _“And how can it ever be so when Lannisport and Oldtown would prevent it from growing, hm?”_  
  
 _As she began her task of sewing “What matters if Seaguard is big or small? I have you, our sons, and Lord Jason would give you a keep if you asked it of him.”_  
  
 _“You expect me to take a keep when I have two hands to earn one of my own?!”_  
  
 _She raised her eyes from her task, and he could see the love and worry within them, “Aye, if it will keep you from being swallowed by the Sunset Sea!”_  
  
 _“I won’t be swallowed by the Sunset Sea, Mara my love.”_  
  
 _She scoffed, “How do you know? Did you see it?”_  
  
 _He sighed, “Speak plainly, Mara.”_  
  
 _She speared her needle into the fabric to keep it in place and then met his eyes. Very seriously she stated, “I saw it in a dream. I was a girl again on the Lonely Light and Gylbert was still… well sane. We were playing on the beach as we always had at that age. He found a shell and a squid washed ashore—the mollusk having clamped onto one of the tentacles and wounded the young squid until they both were dead. And just as we were finished looking at that, in with the tide came bodies and bones of all the sailors who tried to cross the sea… I saw some of my forefathers, and greenlanders aplenty of all hairs and eye colors, and gods help me Sawane… I saw you lying in the sand.”_  
  
 _She looked heartbroken, despondent, and . Cautiously he approached and kneeling next to her, took her right hand in his and assured her._  
  
 _He stood and assured her, “’Tis only a dream. I will find us a future in the west, of that I am sure.”_  
  
 _As he exited the inn’s room they rented for their own, he heard her whisper, “You will find your grave there, Sawane, and leave me without a husband and our sons without a father…”_  
  
She may have wished he’d keep anchor in port or sail close to shore, but he knew it only came from a place of love with her.  
  
“Harren, take in the sail!” called Sawane over the roar of the rain.  
  
He saw his son nod and then watched has he grabbed a rope and used it to scurry up the mast.  
  
The ship pitched in the next moment and a wave came rolling over the port and washed the deck straight over to starboard, washing more than a few of the greenlanders to the edge and nearly over the gunwales. All the while Harren worked at furling the sail.  
  
He heard the rumble of thunder then and worried. The Storm God was a well-known foe to any Ironborn… but he was not on ships blessed by a Drowned Priest. He’d left the Swiftfin at the Lonely Light, when it proved to be slowing down the voyage.  
  
As was custom, Sawane had been asked to dine with his goodbrother and his opinionated wife.  
  
 _“There are simply some things we are best off not knowing.”_  
  
 _“Hush now, Syba, Sawane hasn’t finished speaking!”_  
  
 _“Hush, you say?! It’s the godsdamn truth Gylbert! As far as I’m concerned if the gods wanted it to be known what was on the otherside of the Sunset Sea, they would have allowed someone to cross it by now. That they haven’t—”_  
  
 _“And what if they were waiting for my father?” challenged Harren._  
  
 _Harren’s aunt by marriage shifted her eyes to him and then gave a meaningful look to Sawane, saying, “Your son should know when to hold his tongue,” clucked Lady Syba._  
  
 _With a proud look to Harren, Sawane responded, “My son is a man grown. He can hold his tongue as he pleases.”_  
  
 _“With the lankiness of a boy about him still,” scoffed Syba._  
  
 _“All Farwynds are somewhat lanky,” commented Gylbert proudly, to this Syba had no words to respond with._  
  
 _Harren, who all this time had kept quiet as they talked of him, decided to bring the conversation back to its original subject, “We will reach land! We have a piece of wood with blue sap—show her father.” The way he held himself, reminded Sawane slightly of his father for a brief moment._  
  
 _“So you found a piece of driftwood, what does that matter? Who knows where and how long it has drifted along the currents? I’ll have none of your wood. And besides, even if it were from somewhere to the west, what’s to say that it isn’t from another lonely isle like this one?”_  
  
 _Gylbert gave an odd smile and answered, “The Deep Gods brought the Farwynds here in the old days before the Andals came while the rest of the Isles were overrun with Hoares. What’s to say they aren’t calling for Sawane to journey further west?”_  
  
 _Sawane shifted in his seat uncomfortably—whenever Gylbert spoke of these “deep gods” he felt as though the Drowned God might leave him for the Storm God._  
  
 _“Foolish daydreams. Mark my words, Sawane, nephew. This voyage will only bring death and sorrow in its wake,” tutted Lady Syba._  
  
And then suddenly the thunder cracked straight overhead, disturbing Sawane from his thoughts. Lightning hit the mast. Things happened so quickly after that he barely had time to take in all that what was happening.  
  
Harren was on the deck now, splayed and flat upon his back. Immediately Sawane felt the need to rush to his son’s side—but his grip on the wheel kept him to his post. He wanted to shout, to call for his son, but the words were caught in his throat. Soon some of the men that had managed to gather round his boy. One of them then looked up and met Sawane’s eyes. He knew the instant that they had locked eyes that it was hopeless.  
  
Damn the Storm God… Damn him!  
  
When the seas had calmed and the early light of dawn appeared, he’d given over the helm so he could tend to his boy. With his eyes closed, in all honesty he looked as though he slept. He looked far younger than his nine and ten namedays… death having stripped him of six or seven years in Sawane’s eye. He gently brushed his soaked hair from his eyes.  
  
 _My heir… my son… my boy…_  
  
The boy who’d believed him when most others had doubted. His boy who was supposed to marry Jason’s girl and start a new life for their family… now gone… all gone, dead with the simple strike of lightning.  
  
The rest of his men, saving the ones needed to tend to the ship, hovered over him.  
  
“It’s a sign from the Seven, captain. Turn back now… or we’ll all meet such ends,” murmured a greenlander.  
  
A round of agreement rose from the crew, but Sawane didn’t care, for none of them were his boy… his boy who he’d killed sending him up the mast.  
  
“We need to make a decision,” urged another greenlander, taking hold of Sawane’s shoulder.  
  
Sawane shook his head and remembered where he was, with some difficulty he said, “We will speak with the other ship first… before making any decision.”  
  
A dangerous groan rippled about him, but thankfully they saw enough reason to wait for the _Seawolf_. He then picked up Harren and took him into his cabin to prepare for his burial at sea. Harren looked so pale now… and felt so frigid. They’d need a weight of some kind to take him to the deep.  
  
It was as they waited for their sister ship to catch up to them, the storm having separated them but thankfully not so far as to loose sight of one another, that a cabin boy scurried over to Sawane and shouted, “There’s something glittering on the horizon, captain!”  
  
Several of the men had gathered by the bow, taking turns looking though the Myrish eye. Something indeed was there, glittering on the western horizon, but it was far to distant to make out with the naked eye alone. Remembering that even if his boy was to feast in the Drowned God’s hall, he’d still need be a captain to his crew, Sawane strode over to where the men had gathered like an overeager bunch of gulls and demanded the Myrish eye. He received it and held the device up to his eye.  
  
The sight of a snow capped mountain peak far off in the distance, shimmering in the early light of the sun came to him through the lens of the Eye.  
  
“Land…” he whispered half in shock, and then again, a bit louder, “Land.” Surely ahead they’d find a rock to bury Harren at sea with.  
  
“I told you!” proclaimed one of the men to another.  
  
Sawane simply told to signal the Seawolf and retired once again to his cabin. Looking again at his son, he wondered briefly if his boy’s life was this the cost for pulling back the curtain upon the Sunset Sea.  
  
When the Seawolf had pulled alongside them and were told of the discovery, Sawane moved himself to gather a dingy of men together—taking the greenlander who’d suggested turning back, so as to keep him from taking the ship after he’d departed. The men who came with him were eager to set foot upon dry land, and resupply with fresh meat and game.  
  
Approaching the land, he saw it grow before his eyes. The top of a high mountain had glittered in the early morning hours, but it was but the tallest of a whole range of peaks which stretched North and South as far as the eye could see. Beneath it, extending out like roots from a tree was a thick forest. Using the Myrish eye he attempted to look for a small cove to beach upon, when he saw it. At first he couldn’t believe his eyes, he thought he must be seeing things… but further looks only confirmed it… between the edge of the forest and the beach, lay what looked like a walled town with a high wooden fence surrounding it. Smoke drifted up from the center of the town, and what looked like… yes fishing boats—small and crude and without anything but a meager sail were moored alongside the beach. And pushing off from the beach there were men with skin as dark as copper, clad in nothing but furs and skins of animals he knew not what they were.  
  
But what had caught Sawane’s attention the most was some symbol was painted along the wooden fence, which became clearer the closer they came—that of a wolf running in a yellow sun—not just any wolf, but a direwolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends Part Two, with this epilogue.
> 
> Don't worry, there are still two more parts to go, so be on the lookout for Part Three, which should have a first chapter up soon or thereabouts. Title yet to be determined, but likely something along the lines: "When the Stars Fall".
> 
> There will also be a story collection of short stories that take place within this universe but are too detail intrinsic or take place on the periphery of the main plot to be included in the main series. That will appear sooner rather than later. It'll likely have a title of "Stories from the World of the Young Falcon" or something along those lines.
> 
> To be updated about these new stories, if you haven't already, bookmark the series this fic is a part of: "Rise and Fall of the Baratheons", over on my profile page, so you can be notified when these things go up. :-) Or, if you don't have an account check my profile when you feel the need.
> 
> And now a little retrospective on Part 2:
> 
> Originally this part was supposed to only be 20 - 30 chapters long at most, a short little breather to cover the time period between 283 and when the main series takes place circa 298. To put it another way, Oswell went in my plans from originally dieing at the end of this planned story arc, to dieing halfway, to dieing... well where he dies now early on. As you can tell from the chapter count it grew into much more than that as I thought about how to set up things that would be important for the later story I wanted to tell in this universe (essentially forcing Westeros into the Renaissance, kicking and screaming). In Part 3 we really start to see the butterfly effect of the Renaissance & Reformation coming to Westeros really take flight.
> 
> We've seen the Rise of the Baratheon Dynasty, and it has now reached its zenith in incorporating the Stepstones. The next two parts will be about its demise. Buckle in for it'll be a very rocky ride from here on out. ;-)
> 
> See you all soon, and please leave a comment down below, I love to hear from all of you.


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